The Matchmaker's Painting

Half a bowl of Granny Meng's soup, half a handful of lingering memories.

Gazing at the familiar yet strange face in the bronze mirror, what exactly had she forgotten?

Was their fated encounter also a sign that their marriage was destined?

A paintbrush clutched tightly in her hand, she silently paints a match for you.

In this life, before the flickering lamp and ancient Buddha, she prays devoutly: “All I want is to be his wife.”

But in his heart, he asks Buddha to bless another woman with a good match: “In this life, I only want to make her my wife.”

A song of parting sorrow, tears in an empty city, white hair fading away, black tresses reborn. How can the word “love” ever be explained?