That mysterious path disappeared already
The pine forest is still far away
A small red winged bird flies by
The setting sun becomes the only silhouette on a distant hill
Day and night are a piece of indistinct blank paper
On the rock, there has not been etched any clues
Walking by a patch of wild flax
Happening upon a youngster on a horse, a smiling face
Deeply presageful

Without the silent beckoning of smoke from the hearth
A few old walls
Only leave behind the years’ cold fingerprints
Resonating in the void
At the brink of twilight, the earth is old, the sky is desolate
Looking back, the youth riding the horse
Is already not on the road