That night, I listened to Buddhist songs all night, not for understanding, but just to find a trace of your breath.
That month, I turned all the prayer wheels, not for salvation, but just to touch your fingerprints.
That year, I bowed my head and hugged the dust, not to worship Buddha, but just to stay close to your warmth.
In that life, I traveled through hundreds of thousands of mountains, not to cultivate the next life, but just to meet you on the road.
At that moment, I ascended to immortality, not for immortality, but just to keep you safe and happy.
That day, I closed my eyes in the fragrant mist of the Sutra Hall, and suddenly heard the mantra in your chanting.
That month, I shook all the prayer wheels, not for salvation, but just to touch your fingertips.
(For the introduction, please refer to "That Life" by Tsangyang Gyatso)