Waiting for the moss marks to lick the cuffs of the green robe, forgetting myself in the deep mountains, the decaying grass, the barren land, and the old sky.
Waiting for the withered red dust and white snow on my face to pass over my rich family, and the abundant divine jade to moisten my red kiss.
Waiting for him to conquer the dust of his previous life and dream about it at night, his soul will be tired and he will end this life.
Waiting for ten lives and ten lives to come and go alone, wash away the soft redness between the brows and dissipate the running water of love and hate.
(Note: It tells the story of a female pig who calmly became a saint and prepared to ascend. It is not time travel, not cultivation, not a fairy, and not bloody.)