Carrying the sorrow of a lifetime, who in front of the flowers and under the moon vowed to tell countless people the absurdity?
On the streets of the world of mortals, the sound of feet is like no sound, not as good as the faint ripples of still water drowning in the sound of Sanskrit. . . . . .
The desolation of being betrayed and separated from relatives, the arrogance that masks ignorance of the world, who, at the end of the road, hopes to escape into the loneliness of Buddhism?
Time is like a pestle, grinding away the traces of time, loneliness is like poison, one drink will make you forget each other. . . . . .