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That night, I listened to Sanskrit singing all night, not to understand, but to find a trace of your breath.

That January, I turned all the meridians, not to cross, but to touch your fingerprints.

That year, I kowtowed and held dust, not to worship Buddha, but to keep your warmth.

At that time, I crossed hundreds of mountains, not to repair the afterlife, but to meet you on the road.

At that moment, I soared to immortality, not for immortality, but for your peace and happiness.

That day, I closed my eyes in the fragrant fog of the temple and suddenly heard the truth in your eulogy.

That January, I shook all the prayer wheels, not to cross, but to touch your fingertips.

That year, I kowtowed on the mountain road, not to see you, but to stick to your warmth.

At that time, I turned the landscape into a stupa, not to repair the afterlife, but to meet you on the road.

At that moment, I raised my horse, not to beg for happiness, but to wait for your arrival.

On that day, the Mani Pile was built not for Xiu De, but to throw stones at the Heart Lake.

That January, I shook all the prayer tubes, not to cross over, but to touch your fingertips.

That year, I kowtowed on the mountain road, not to see you, but to stick to your warmth.

In this life, climbing mountains and mountains is not for reincarnation, but for meeting you on the road.

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