In the depths of attachment lie those speechless moments of beauty. Once, it was only for you. Even if the papers filled with whispers have turned yellow with time, I am still willing to hold this gentleness, unrepentantly writing our eternity with ink, turning our meeting into the world's most beautiful legend.
They say the longest journey of all is the road back home. New flowers bloom year after year, pitying the travelers; the sound of thin horses' hooves stops as they unharness and look around. In the twilight of the setting sun, the longing for home rises, like the frost on parents' temples. Have you ever thought of the wanderer's prayer? The year the elder sister sat by the window embroidering her wedding dress, and now the toddler stumbles while holding onto a bed. Has anyone taken him to find clams by the river? The clear springs flow long over the stones; in my hometown, the moss grows on the steps of the ancestral hall. Has the roof been replaced with new beams? Have the swallows that nested there flown away? Once, we gathered around the hall, from white hair to youthful curls, chatting and playing in laughter; in that moment, all worldly ambitions fade. A golden cup cannot replace the simple tea of those days; the road home is the most heart-wrenching, and I must walk it to the end.
A lie is like a blooming flower—beautiful on the outside, but its lifespan is fleeting.
