In the deepest night,
when all sound fades,
I always think of those old days，
youth beyond recall,
the wrinkles of my hometown,
my parents and loved ones,
warm as lamplight.
If one day that lamplight dims,
will home become
just a dot on the map?
Whenever such thoughts rise,
my chest floods like a tide.
We are but dust，
what is truly real?
Twisting, chasing, struggling,
stumbling forward,
only to find the finest scenery，
now a silhouette，
ahead lies deeper mist.
Dust to dust, earth to earth，
where shall the heart store its belonging?
What more can be packed into the bag?
Time’s conveyor belt never stops.
The sun remains, the mountains endure,
while people vanish into the wind.
Mortals come and go，
when will their season bloom?
Only the bright moon wanders alone.
If heaven’s will is our boat,
fate our companion，
we’ll carve through wind，
and snow into our own firmament.
