The winter of that year was full of flying prajna. You bloomed a bright stem but broke three branches of memory. Whose silence took away whose colorful clothes, who refused to call the curtain and who will always perform the prosperity. The desolation under forbearance bloomed one, two and three broken flowers. The place where endless memories come from is crowded with angels with vague faces. There is no sadness, and the grass is overgrown with sadness. The lost years in the grass, the years flying south, the Mohe River, the north of the North Star, the broken strings of the seals, the darkened tombs of the soul, and I, from ancient times, have been a hunter standing in the wind, leaving behind memories, no way forward, no way back, freedom, loneliness, unruly, untamed, fierce, gentle, wandering, eternal life
Intention: