Night rain over South Mountain with candlelight, where do things fall apart? In the end, who becomes the demon in whose heart? When the wine wears off and the sky turns cold, I recall the moon setting at Lan Terrace. By a small stove waiting for fire, I do not believe in growing old with a stranger. Meeting at Penglai Mountain, I hear of forming wondrous flowers and fruits.
A young man with brows full of emotion and eyes hiding affection, where flowers of romance bloom as if ordinary. A winding line of lost glory, how many years have carved dreams in hand, how many winds have scattered tears in the crowd. A touch of red makeup laughs at me waiting for an answer, burning away prosperity. Holding hands with curved brows, we lose the ends of the world. Among the crowd and wind of romance, a pair of cinnabar marks listens to the noise of prosperity. Lonely mountain rain, mistaken crowds, innocence, listening to the sky and night prosperity. One cup strong, one cup of request. On the road of glory, among the human world and sky, one storm after another. Roads grow cold and longing arises, hearts suffer from mistakes. Broken tunes end, but life returns to normal, silent farewell, fingers tightly interlocked, holding onto a horizon without fragrance.
If you never lower your head, you will never see the dust on your chest.
The wise act according to timing, while the foolish go against it.
Life is like a rope, always pulling us forward. To survive, we learn to yield, retreat, compromise, and even unconsciously reshape ourselves. Do not assume this is natural; many habits quietly shape our character, and life does not entirely define who we are.
When the mind is narrow, troubles increase; when the mind is broad, wisdom flourishes.