I looked up at the end of the stone steps, filled with sadness. Climbing up with bare feet through the moist moss-covered crevices, the coolness on the soles of your feet is like the quietly blooming lotus in summer. You worship the Buddhas devoutly, but I only stare at your profile infatuatedly, watching the loneliness flowing in your eyebrows and eyes, solidifying into the distant Sanskrit sound...
The tangled veins in the palm gave rise to many separations.
Overpasses and dangerous railings, green mountains and stone pavilions, shooting stars and fireworks, the corners of your clothes fly away and leave me with your dreamlike youth. How can I be willing to count the years that are like songs in those days. The flute is blowing, and the setting sun is shining. After many years apart, are you standing leaning against the railing in your clothes as before, calling me to be drunk in the world of mortals?