You, on the morning after insomnia
Let your walk be steeper, meandering
In the still-dripping morning rain,
The occasional notes that emerge between the trees
Are like ghosts. (Sometimes I cannot capture their blurry faces)
Birds are a product of lightness, from the sky,
Clearer than the river, more familiar with the path of the lake than you.
You almost envy them.
Even the other things present know that last night
Still left a key on you, and the humidity therefore exudes a sandalwood-like
Satisfaction. Still, please walk deeper,
The lingering weakness grows on either side of the old landscape.
Do you think of anything, think of any long journey you have taken?
At that time, the mountain paths in the forest fell into rest,
The light of the electrical age stopped supplying after ten o'clock,
Allowing us to enjoy the ancient darkness.
In the intervals, the echoes of creation can be heard.
But this time it is not this side,
Not this side that has been told so much that even where the squirrels hide
Their sturdy fruits are irrelevant. And where should you
Go to find them? Those hearts that have already been soaked in tears before the cold wave arrives,
They are haggard and pure, almost helping me to observe those subtle images.
The muddy paths that the mountain people have walked,
Drowning in the fermenting dead branches,
Suggest that we will still meet a skilled winter, so
The stream is even paler, like fine snow, trying to carve the image of passing away.
“If you go right, the river you prefer is below.”
In the summer, I used to read the Old Testament and jog by the river.
At that time, the weight of the ether was lighter than a breath, enough to escape any grasp.
It seemed that it could be blown by the wind head-on, embracing every tiny thing in its vastness. But at this moment it is still our day, “Perhaps
I will be close to the water, and perhaps 
Qu Yuan will also understand that eternal metaphor.”