Life is like this, this fleeting existence. Love is born and dies when passion reaches its height. Fortune and misfortune, life and death, are decreed by Heaven. Love and hate, passion and vengeance, have no fixed hour. Marriages part and ties dissolve, their sorrows bound up in the six realms. On the far shore, beauty blooms; blood and light fill the sky. The teeming masses pass through fire to be reborn. Tears fall as we gaze toward home; passion fades like running water. We turn and drift, lost and alone; love ensnares us in the heavens. Fleeting dreams play out like a drama. Who rules the rise and fall? The road ahead stretches into the mist. Love and hate are boundless; the paths of reincarnation crisscross, leaving regrets at every turn. We pledge ourselves to each other in life and death, yet our hearts still hang in suspense. A thousand years of tender devotion, and still, all ends in turmoil. What is the worth of such infatuation? Watching the chess game with a smile, the knight tramples the paired swallows; the game turns in an instant. A hundred years have passed. Looking back today, all that remains is sorrow. What else can be done? The clear-eyed onlooker can only smile and sigh: “You are not a fish. You are not a fish.”
I really feel so pitiful for Xin