Waiting for Snow, Praying for Someone's Safety
In the blink of an eye, the seasons have changed, and the cold and warmth come and go. The snow from afar carries a tangled affection, drifting past my window in this lifetime, piece by piece.
Thoughts linger in the remnants of yesterday's dreams; yet, what I touch is the approaching chill.
The red dust comes and goes, a dream; upon waking, one is already the person within the dream.
Several instances of longing pile up, disrupting the opening of the winter days; several moments of indulgence have already fallen upon my snowy hair.
Amidst the vast expanse of clouds, I bend down to pick up the scattered petals from the depths of time, but I cannot gather the loneliness and joy of this journey; I can only let those gentle words and phrases drift away in the passage of time.
Those past events, that name, are like an endless, gentle breeze, passing through the fences of the seasons, repeatedly coming and going in my midnight dreams.
Suddenly near, suddenly far…
When winter comes, some things are ultimately just a wisp of smoke; some people cannot accompany you all the way down this road.
And the snow will arrive as scheduled, filling every footprint written with dust and weariness.
I wish, in this world of partial affection, to continue, to cherish, and to remember.
In the stories of encounters, some plots of memory have already fallen to the edges of time.
Walking along, time is so long, each segment seems like a repetition and a cycle; time is so short and fleeting, our haste, always with our backs to the source, secretly wiping away tears, and then bending down to continue rushing forward.
Your name is the shortest poem I have ever read; your name is the longest poem I have ever spoken.
In my lifetime, I always deeply and sincerely expect winter, expecting an unexpected encounter with you in the faint chill, a passing glance.
This snow returns in the dense longing and prayers of people, falling on the scales of life, with even and uneven tones, deep and shallow, comforting our parched souls, enacting that truth and plainness.
Quiet, also detached.
I wish, in the serene years, to embrace those poetic warmth, leaning my ear to listen to the glory and shame, sorrow and joy in the dusty winds of love.
I wish, in the stories of encounters, not to speak of the past, not to speak of longing, but to say: Long time no see!
……@headforemotions @headforemotions @headforemotion @headforemotion
