Will we always be able to stand on both sides of the river and look at the other side that we can never get close to? I have been thinking about how many times we looked back and rubbed shoulders in the past life before we met in this life. It was a past life agreement, a three-life alliance, and a true vow. I still drank Wangchuan water and Mengpo soup, and missed the thousands of rivers and mountains. Or maybe it's just that I'm so crazy about waiting for that oil-paper umbrella in the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, thinking crazy about the wilderness in Saibei that you said you would wait for me to go around this world of mortals.
When the years are mottled, who will still remember the bright moon bending towards the passenger ship. The bells of Wusu are still echoing in the painted boats and carved railings, but now they no longer have the warmth they had at that time, only because things have changed and people have changed and time has passed. The gentle and gentle young man Pianpian back then is now just a stranger, a memory left in yesterday. That encounter was composed into a poem by someone. The wind blows and the sparks of early summer slightly cool the night of this life. The waning moon and the shadows of red candles in late autumn shed the petals of previous lives. The bright moon was there at that time, and it once illuminated the colorful clouds. It was just then, not now.
I hope that in the next life, God will fulfill my wish, and I will fulfill my lifelong obsession. But who can predict whether they will meet again after a thousand years, whether they will be entangled again, whether they will be separated again.