The wind blows, gently brushing my cold face, fresh and fluttering. The green and black hair and plain white clothes danced in the wind, and they all melted into the swaying of the mountain.
I stood on the top of a high hill, and all I could see was the rolling green hills, the towering green trees flowing in the sky, the occasional waterfall like a few white horses crossing the gap, the clouds in the sky were more than erratic, and the occasional goshawk fluttered and roared. The scenery is picturesque, and I am in the painting.
The mountain under my feet has no giant tree Qiongquan that can be matched, and there are only weeds that are high in the mountains, and when the wind blows, they stir my clothes like naughty children, rub my face, and listen to my loneliness.
I don't know how long I've been here, ten years, a hundred years, or a thousand years... The endless watchman has obscured the concept of time, and I have simply memorized the countless alternating cycles of the sun and the moon, like playing a game of chasing each other.
What does it matter?! No matter how time changes, my heart never changes; despite the years of sculpting my face, my love always remains fresh. I watch day after day and year after year, when does she appear in front of me?
She was gone, and her head was gone without looking back. She didn't say she was coming back, and I didn't know where she was going. But I believe that the love we once had, although not an earth-shattering ghost, but the true heart is already the most loved. She will definitely be back, with her own arrangements. I waited foolishly, looking at the sheep's gut trail that must be passed back—bright as silver,— which had been trampled by my burning gaze for many years.
The greater the hope, the greater the disappointment. It doesn't matter, I'm used to it, just as the mountains, water, grass, and birds around me are used to my company, accustomed to the low moans of sorrow and calm when I am sad, accustomed to the roar of tearing when I am angry and not alarmed. More often, I'm calm like a sculpture.
I watched silently, day and night before she appeared. Tired, you can listen to the leaves, the mountain springs, the insects and birds chirping, lie in the weeds, enjoy the unpredictable wind and clouds of the white clouds, and recall those long-lost beauty. Crazy and dry, you can run all over the mountains, freely across the green mountains and rivers, holding the wind and clouds, walking like a fly, recalling those past events.
I was tired of running, and I thought it was time to rest and quiet my fiery heart, because I still had countless tomorrows to watch. I returned to the top of my hill, where a lonely grave stood, and the vigorous weeds crawled all over its body, showing a sad and desolate appearance, and a few unknown birds jumped back and forth, chirping, as if pouring out some endless thoughts.
"Tomb of Mo Evil", the seal on the tombstone is deeply inscribed with four words. Mo Xie, a name that I almost forgot—that belonged to me.
