One Thought, a Mortal Life · Above and Below, All Connected · 98 / 102
· Master of the Game
In the evening woods, a desolate moon rippling; every sound of men and horses slows. The wind is too still; it snags on threads of dust, breathes out, breathes in, and lures a dream into its weaving.
The fireflies return; I turn at the door to look—who, once more, ? The stream surges, pebbles clatter; let the lamplight go out as it will.
Glosses—
Rippling [dàn]: the look of water rising and falling in waves;
Breathe in [xī]: the same as 'inhale', to draw air into the body.
*This is an original work. If you reprint it, please credit the original author Shixi Lin; any infringement, once discovered, will be pursued for legal liability. In addition, the accompanying image comes from the internet and belongs to the original illustrator RedMatcha.