I would long for, there’ll be a day, when up to the mountains.
Hidden in the thick desirous tree woods, there, a little cottage of desire stands, built by my own hands and bamboos.
From west-side window, peep through the bamboo drape,
The flying-ribbon like white cloud loosely tied around mountainside as if she promenades in from afar.
Since then, no more counting the days.
Since then, all mountains dwelling years are forgotten.
Nothing will be desired any more, day-in and day-out, just caress a string of no longer red, red beans.
Babbling out words till aging and fade away…..
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