There seems to be only a threshold between dreaming and waking.
Outside the threshold is the billowing smoke and dust of old dreams, while inside the threshold is the vague Zen mind of clouds and water.
We cannot experience the smoke and dust era of the past, and we cannot touch the backs of our distant ancestors.
Just looking back at the moment, the once galloping war horses have been submerged in the ancient road of yellow dust, and the once emperor's hegemony has dissipated into yesterday's wind and clouds.
The mountains are long and the rivers are far away, life seems like a dream, but when you wake up, it is already a world of change.
What is far away will come closer, and what is waiting is no longer long.
Wandering in the dream of smoke, dust and beacon fire...
Holding an oil-paper umbrella, walking through the silent rainy alley, looking for the old dream of fighting and fighting;
Take a small boat, on a frosty day when the moon is like water, to salvage the fleeting years;
Study a piece of ancient ink, write the desolation into beacon fire, and dance the loneliness into beauty...