Don't let the longing get too painful.

 　　The door is half-open, half-closed, like the eyes of early spring.

　　The occasional croaking of frogs drifts in; I think they are confiding, or perhaps yearning for love. The sounds rise and fall, lingering and deep. I can't help but secretly ask myself, how should I express myself, how should I express my longing? With sound or with my heart?

　　Outside the window, stars twinkle, and the crescent moon rises quietly. The wind gently caresses the leaves. All I can do is slowly sweep away the remnants of longing from my memory. Let my heart be still, let the trees be still, let the frogs be silent. Quietly await the arrival of a spring rain.

　　The wind and leaves whisper incessantly, the clouds and the moon are entangled, chasing each other. Only silence fills the room, the sound of my own breathing. Let go of one thought, and all is at ease. Alone, I keep company with the earth, searching for the place of my heart's peace. Ignore the streaks of snow at my temples, ignore the wounds etched on my forehead by the passing days, be my own king, and my own servant.

　　What keeps people here isn't the room, and what takes them away isn't the road. It's a heart full of honesty and tolerance. Whether I stay or go, whether I'm here or not, I am still me, without joy or sorrow. I seal my longing in my memory, not trying to comfort it, afraid of hurting myself and others.

　　The night remains silent, but I smell the scent of spring blossoms, hear the spring breeze rustling the curtains. I think I should go out for a walk, to the seaside, to see a thousand sails billowing, to see cranes dancing on the white sand, to let my heart soar in another way.

　　Don't comfort my longing, okay?

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