The Waning Moon of the Thirteen States

There is nothing new under the moonlight. There are only old dreams, shattered into powder over and over again. Some people spend their whole lives climbing, and finally sit in the gorgeous cell at the top, counting their heartbeats in the empty echo. Some people are like meteors streaking across the night sky at their most splendid years, causing all the legends of future generations to stop before the string is cut off, and no longer dare to continue writing. Someone carved the word "loyalty" into his own monument, and then walked personally to the snowy city where the monument was destined to be buried. After everyone said "forget it", someone picked up the last spark from the ashes alone, held it in the palm of his hand, and walked the road that even the stars gave up to shine. And the moonlight is equal—— It shined upon the wet inkstone, the cool medicine stove, the frozen smile at the banquet, and the tears that refused to fall in front of the mourning hall. It illuminated the decisive red line on the map when the lone army went deep, and illuminated the pen that could no longer be lifted in the original autumn wind. It illuminated the first cry when a dynasty was born from iron blood, and also how that cry turned into an unheard sigh three generations later. The land of Thirteen States remembers every drop of blood. What Moonlight remembers is what still refuses to dissipate after the blood dries up—— Temperature, obsession, and unspoken love.