(I)
Calling, crying out,
Fervent torches burn through withered grass and death.
Dust and spring water:
A past unwilling to be mentioned,
Constantly scattered and repeated.
Years impossible to forget:
Why so untouchable yet stirring.
The runner on the wasteland still searches
For the price of exiling a soul,
Dawn breaks.
(II)
As if an era ends, the sun rises
The end of one world is the awakening of a new epoch.
The loneliness of darkness is wrapped in gentleness,
This softening,
Cannot compare to a teardrop falling into the sea.
From midsummer to harsh winter,
Weaving prayers in verse,
The departing letter of migratory birds,
The signature always reads 'see you next year,'
Yet year after year, they are unseen.
Grasses and plants on the wasteland sprout,
The endless journey
Infinitely approaches death and rebirth.
(III)
Green-yellow grasses reach out from the rocks,
The more desperately I try to grasp this new life,
The deeper the crumbling soil and sand let my fingers sink.
Trying to find the boundary of the grass,
Locked in this divergence,
Thoughts tangled and unclear.
What have I forgotten?
Perhaps it is innate,
Has been budding for a long time,
Or could it be suppressed…
Thinking this, my mind is in chaos.
In an instant,
A mist rises,
Wasteland, you were meant to be colorful.
(IV)
The life of the wasteland is a retrograde river,
Winding, struggling greedily towards the earth,
Wanting to escape this place with the grains of soil.
But, blood of the wasteland,
You are coiled and folded,
Unaware that you will still return—
On a distant land,
There is an ocean.
You vainly hope to break free,
The world's causality and roots are submerged and rot there,
Finally returning to your mother's embrace.
The wasteland transforms into meadow and mountain peak.
Memory is a retrograde river,
Initially scouring the empty wasteland of the heart.
Forgetting, in the end, can return to memory.
