I asked nothing， only stood at the edge of the wood behind the tree.
Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn， and the dew in the air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the earth.
Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands， tender and fresh asbutter.
And I was standing still.
I did not come near you.
The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple.
The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips， women came from the river.
Your bracelets were jingling， and foam brimming over the jar.
The morning wore on and I did not come near you.
I heard the echo, from the valleys and the heart
Open to the lonely soul of sickle harvesting
Repeat outrightly, but also repeat the well-being of
Eventually swaying in the desert oasis
I believe I am
Born as the bright summer flowers
Do not withered undefeated fiery demon rule
Heart rate and breathing to bear the load of the cumbersome
I heard the music, from the moon and carcass
Auxiliary extreme aestheticism bait to capture misty
Filling the intense life, but also filling the pure
There are always memories throughout the earth
I believe I am
Died as the quiet beauty of autumn leaves
Sheng is not chaos, smoke gesture
Even wilt also retained bone proudly Qing Feng muscle
I hear love, I believe in love
Love is a pool of struggling blue-green algae
As desolate micro-burst of wind
Bleeding through my veins
Years stationed in the belief
I believe that all can hear
Even anticipate discrete, I met the other their own
Some can not grasp the moment
Left to the East to go West, Gu, the dead must not return to
See, I head home Zanhua, in full bloom along the way all the way
Frequently missed some, but also deeply moved by wind, frost, snow or rain
Prajna Paramita, soon as soon as
Shengruxiahua dead, as an autumn leaf
Also care about what has
If thou speakest not
I will fill my heart with the silence and endure it.
I will keep still and wait
like the night with starry vigil
and its head bent low with patience.
The morning will surely come,
the darkness will vanish,
and tht voice pour down in golden streams
breaking trough the sky.
Then thy words will take wing
in songs from every one of my birds’ nest,
and thy melodies
will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.