Rain Falls in Front of the Mountain

Lying down and listening to the autumn moon on Pinghu, I raise my glass in front of Xisai Mountain. The jade pendant glowed warmly between the sleeves, just like broken stars falling into the mortal world. I sat alone on the stone steps of the Mongolian Nursing Home, watching the blue bricks and black tiles ripple in the moonlight, as if the ancient charm of thousands of years and the lights of the present world were blending here. The wind chime swayed gently at the corner of the eaves, raising the faint light of the spiritual plants in the garden. The tortoise-shell leaves whisper, the kumquats holding oracle-bone inscriptions tremble gently on the branches, and the subtle fragrance floats, as if there are ancient star maps flowing between the veins of the leaves. The remains of the mechanical tooth beast in the distance glowed with green fireflies, echoing the rising stars in the sky. The future and the present, the morning dew and the distant shadow, are shining over a lake of autumn moon.