At the Orchid Pavilion, I copy the calligraphy, cursive script flowing like clouds and water.
Beneath the moon, you push open the door, your careful footsteps as light as yours.
A thousand-year-old inscription is easy to reproduce in haste,
but your beauty is beyond imitation.
A genuine work, a genuine heart: to whom can I give them?
A shepherd's flute plays across the fields, with rice wine and a few simple dishes.
The sunset glow resembles your bashful, almost drunken look.
A copy is easy to make, but the scent of ink never fades.
May we leave behind a lingering sweetness together.
Whose name is circled in vermilion, stroke by stroke?
This has nothing to do with romance. I write this preface and wait for you to return.
Brush poised, one final stroke, as waves pile up along the shore.
How can one explain love? Every stroke I write is wrong.
All my life, what I lack is an understanding of you.
This has nothing to do with romance. I write this preface and wait for you to return.
Brush poised, one final stroke, as waves pile up along the shore.
How can one explain love? Every stroke I write is wrong.
All my life, what I lack is an understanding of you.
This has nothing to do with romance. I write this preface and wait for you to return.
Brush poised, one final stroke, as waves pile up along the shore.
How can one explain love? Every stroke I write is wrong.
All my life, what I lack is an understanding of you.
With a snap of the fingers, the years pass; a city of beauty vanishes in an instant like smoke.
On the bluestone street, you look back and smile, so graceful.
Did you ever feel regret? You shake your head and sigh softly.
Who made you furrow your brow,
leaving only the scent of rouge in the inner chambers?
As people and geese fly south, you turn for one last glance, tears in your eyes.
I scoop up a handful of moonlight, gather my memories, and wonder how to sleep.
How did your thoughts become sewn so tightly into an embroidered shoe,
every stitch a complaint?
If flowers resent butterflies, whom would you resent?
This has nothing to do with romance. I write this preface and wait for you to return.
Brush poised, one final stroke, as waves pile up along the shore.
How can one explain love? Every stroke I write is wrong.
All my life, what I lack is an understanding of you.
This has nothing to do with romance. I write this preface and wait for you to return.
I write by hand, with no shame or fear of the world's judgment.
Rain beats on banana leaves, and the nights grow dreary one after another.
I wait for spring thunder to remind you whom you love.
A few lines written on a whim, for Gu Shentong, who lives in my heart.
Theme:
Like appreciating a poem