The Buddhas are above, the ghost realm is below, and I am in the middle, floating in the world like a stranger.
Bones are used as fuel and blood is used as wax. Burning this broken body will not illuminate even a single tile.
When I came, the green hills were like waiting, and when I left, the white dew turned into frost.
Some people cry for me on the left side of the road, and some people forget themselves in the setting sun.
But I didn't speak, and I didn't answer, letting the wind blow me like an old cassock.
The deepest pain in the world is when the pain lasts for a long time.
I no longer feel pain.
Like an old monk who has been counting his rosary beads for a lifetime,
Suddenly I counted the grain in the void——
The fingers stopped, the sound of the menstruation stopped,
The sycamore leaves outside the window are falling,
It's very similar to the steps you took when you left.
Don't ask me why I don't cry.
Tears are light,
Real sadness is too heavy,
It sinks directly into the bones,
Turned into stone marrow, turned into the flaws of jade,
When someone digs three feet into the ground a thousand years later,
An unmarked stele excavated.
At that time, the sky and the earth grew old, and the stars shifted,
Your name has long been lost.
Only that monument is still standing——
Don't commemorate anyone,
just standing,
like a person,
Waiting for someone who will never come.
