That day，
　　I mused in the hall，
　　and heard the truth in your chant.
　　That month，
　　I twirled all prayer wheels，
　　not for soul-saving，
　　but your finger-feeling.
　　That year，
　　I crept with kowtow all the way，
　　not for worshipping，
　　but embracing your mildness.
　　That life，
　　weathering thorns and pagodas，
　　not for eternity，
　　but I am on the way for you.
　　That moment，
　　I raised all the flags，
　　not for praying，
　　but awaiting you here.
　　At that time，
　　I， gone with the wind，
　　am not for ageless，
　　but blessing your forever dimple.
　　That night，
　　I had the song all the way.
　　Have I had read your heart？
　　I am only seeking a piece of your breath.
　　That day，
　　I stacked prayer stones，
　　not for the way，
　　but making babblings in my heart.
　　That life，
　　I went through myriad peaks，
　　not for that world，
　　but catching a glimpse of my beauty.
　　But all at that night，
　　I gave them away，
　　my faith and samsara.
　　For， and solely for the rose weeping before the Buddha.
　　My aged beauty， she scattered， scattered in the wind.