The Phoenix's Tribulation

I gave up the chance to become an immortal, for that single moment of warmth in the human world. I look back from the edge of the sky. You ask, are those red clouds on the horizon, or are they my flames? Which lifetime will be the last? Though I know the ending, I cannot say goodbye. What turns into longing as I transcend the mortal form: worldly ties or a nightmare? Is it the ashes of my wings, or the smoke rising from your cooking fire? You pinch your fingers together, calling it my obsession. I look up. Are those stars in the western sky the end of your cycle of rebirth? So far away, yet close enough to touch. What thought can never be extinguished? Who gazes at my face in the next life from the banks of the River of Three Crossings, waiting in a daze just to see that flush of red once more? Who planted the mandala flowers, letting memories of a past life take root, and refused to become the thread that binds us again? How many five-hundred-year cycles have people passed through in this mortal world? How long have they waited for the hourglass to turn? Who answered whose call of fate? And who became whose obsession?! The phoenix, the most beautiful and sacred creature in legend. They say it must be reborn in flames to attain its glory. Human feelings are much the same. The sun sets in the west, and the heartbroken wander far beyond the horizon. Who gazes at this suspended mirror of water and sighs in a daze? Who lifts the lid of the teacup, as the rising steam blurs their eyes? Whose brows are stained with sorrow by the endless stretch of green? Gentle breezes and drifting clouds, deep in the heavens: a Buddhist chant, a sigh, lingering and gentle as they travel through the nine realms, sweeping away countless memories and emotions. Was it a sin from a past life, or a cause that shaped the circumstances of this life? The fruit of this lifetime? You transform into the stars of the western sky, the end of your cycle of rebirth. How much time has the hourglass turned from extinction to eternity? You gaze at my face in the next life from the banks of the River of Three Crossings. I plant mandala flowers, letting memories of a past life take root. How many farewells must it take to kindle flames among the parasol tree branches? How many five-hundred-year cycles have I passed through in this mortal world? When the mandala flowers bloom, who will still remember the past? Who answered whose call of fate? And who became whose obsession?!