I always want to write a poem for my motherland.

     I've always wanted to write a poem for my motherland, but the confusion and hesitation I feel now seem beyond the reach of words. My defiled body is more rotten than the remains in a grave; my chaotic and filthy soul is more lost than a traveler wandering in the fog.

    What am I yearning for…?

    I wander aimlessly through the fog, with only a sliver of reason left, needing no more protection. Only a remnant of wildness roams, gradually being swallowed up.

    The arid Loulan Desert has turned me into a thousand-year-old mummy. My last vestige of consciousness wanders in this boundless desert, carried by the wind, still able to hear the ancient sounds of zithers and lutes. On the passing carriages,

    surely, lies the longing of that beautiful woman.

    As the sun sets, I, this thousand-year-old uncorrupted zombie, gaze at the deep sky. The lonely ghosts coming and going around me weep incessantly, as if telling of my indifference.

    What am I waiting for…?

    I kept asking myself. The rising steam from the ancient teacup

    enveloped my soul, and a voice seemed to drift in my ears: You are just a lonely wanderer in this cycle of time and space; you will never find your home.

    Through the thin mist of tea smoke,

    I vaguely saw my past and my future. Only then did I realize: I really am just a speck of dust in time and space. The cycle of reincarnation continues, and I remain the same.

    That night, I had countless dreams.

    An old fortune teller told me

    that dreams are just another real time and space where I might meet Xiaoyang and 36, and someone named Guiqu… My soul chatted happily with them. When I awoke, I couldn't let go of that longing, but I couldn't find their shadows. It was as if they had never happened. I desperately tried to remember, even shattering my thoughts. I struggled to recall who left a fragment of longing in my cycle of reincarnation? Was it the thousand-year-old wine brewed from the red spider lily? Did my lingering feelings, mixed with the fragrance of the wine, drift down onto that blooming leaf?

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