The Road to Immortality Is Long, and I, Liu Qingci, Want to Walk on It

The journey to immortality is long, longer than a thousand waves in the sea of ​​clouds, swallowing up several degrees of spring and autumn, with the coming and going of cold and summer. Watch the dawn mist spread over the cliffs and condense into frost; listen to the solitary wild geese streaking across the sky, their chirping gradually getting colder. I once saw young children with their young hair hanging down, playing by the stream; in a blink of an eye, their green hair was stained with snow and their steps were hobbling. The joys and sorrows of separation and reunion are all gone in the past; the separation of life and death are piled up into ancient roads. The road to immortality is short, as short as a locust flower blooming, and before you have time to smell the fragrance, it has already fallen into the dust. In the morning, the branches are clustered, and the snow is a dazzling color; at dusk, the wind blows the remaining petals, grinding them into mud fragrance. The past events of the past seem like the wings of a butterfly fluttering lightly, only to touch the corner of the dream, and it is already dawn. Long and short, it's just a moment in the world; when the locust flowers have fallen, who is still staring at the cliff?