When the splendor fades, only the passing years and a heart full of sorrow remain.

The splendor has faded, leaving only a sorrowful memory of bygone years.

Leaning against the railing, gazing at the endless starry night, my head bowed, my brow furrowed with longing. I gaze towards the horizon, my sorrowful years fading. In my dreams, I find only empty tears. The long night continues, a sliver of moonlight falls upon my heart, casting a shadow of melancholy. My brow furrows, a bittersweet melody swirling within me. The beauty of yesteryear, once a source of joy, is now gone, years have passed, and in this mortal world, there seems to be no future. The splendor has faded, leaving only a sorrowful memory of bygone years.

----- Prologue

A lingering dream, a lonely figure piercing the desolation, treading on the moonlight, picking up old dreams from bygone years. A thousand strands of tenderness, gradually fading with time, ultimately succumbing to the relentless flow of years, scattering the past, withering the face, betraying the passing years. A thousand turns of fate, traversing the dust of fleeting years, wisps of smoke, willows swaying in the breeze, along with fallen petals and flowing water, piercing the heart's sorrow. A single sheet of paper laden with sorrow cannot express the pain of longing; a single bamboo flute cannot dispel the grief of parting. A thousand glances in past lives, yet in this life, deep affection is exchanged for shallow fate, brushing past each other, gazing at each other from afar. When will we meet again? Her whereabouts are unknown. Leaning on the railing with wine, unable to drink away the pain. A few lines of longing are written, but she is gone, the building empty. No matter how many times I look back, I cannot bring back the tenderness. A cup of wine, a pen, a melody on the zither accompany me through the remaining years.

On the Stone of Three Lives, a thousand years of waiting are etched. In this waiting, a poem of time is woven, blending the past, the strings of unspoken thoughts, and the beautiful tenderness. Each line, each word, each phrase evokes the past of you and me. Page after page turns, when emotions run deep, loneliness is hard to conceal. Even fragmented chapters, like flowing water, cannot withstand the passage of time. Turning back, we return to the desolate waiting of the beginning. The bright moon shines in the sky, yet it cannot dispel the gloom. Let the thoughts of the heart intertwine, and tears flow alone. The moonlight is like a wash, the wind like flowing water. Who is it that sings of a thousand-year-old predestined relationship, like the wind, yet sings only of parting, scattering it beyond the dust? And who is it that wields the brush and splashes ink, richly embellishing that fleeting beauty? Reciting countless tender poems, yet unable to fully express the joys and sorrows of predestined relationships, unable to fully describe the bustling world. In the deep night, I sit alone by the flickering candle until dawn.

The deep affection of the past life, the shallow fate of this life, plays out one tragedy after another in the years, leading to sorrow and reincarnation of grief, season after season. How can I gather the fallen petals, how can I gather the past like smoke, brushing past the mottled memories, tearfully telling my love on plain paper, foolishly, alone, waiting in this life. Every stroke of the pen is filled with sorrow, how can I continue to write a fragment of an old dream? I still can't let go of the lingering fragrance and poetic charm in my dreams, yet I have no heart to pick up the scattered whispers of bygone years. How many times have I dreamt of you, your smile still lingering in my dreams, only when drunk do I know the wine is strong, only when awake do I know the dream is empty. When will I be able to paint my dream with my pen? Speechless tears flow down my face, longing is written on my pen, words unspoken, why am I so obsessed with ink? The cold wind passes, my thin clothes cannot withstand the chill of the fifth watch, the night grows deeper, I grow thinner, who will add a garment of dreams for me? A lonely shadow under the moon, a solitary figure, how can I bear the chill?

Since ancient times, love has been wounded by parting. On this desolate autumn night, where will I be when I wake from my drunken stupor tonight? On the willow bank, withered flowers play with the moonlit branches at dawn. Years have passed, fleeting before my eyes, all gone. A thousand sorrows, ten thousand heartaches? To whom can I speak? Love is hard to let go, feelings are hard to forget, when will this dream end? Things are not the same, people are not the same, where can I find a kindred spirit in this empty building? The past cannot be retrieved. I imprisoned myself for you, stubbornly remaining stagnant, burning away the years, withering my face, yet it was all just my one-sided obsession. Flowers fall and spring comes again, geese fly away and spring returns, why, as the years pass, are people no longer the same? A lifetime of memories, a lifetime of longing, when will we meet again? This moment, this night, is unbearable. Enter the gate of my longing, know the bitterness of my longing. Long longing, long remembrance, short longing, endless longing. Had I known that longing would break my heart, I would rather we had never met.

Amidst the bustling world, ink and brushstrokes remain, a thin scroll cannot fully express the ancient sorrows. Whose sorrow, gradually fading into desolation on the plain paper, has drifted away from the allure of worldly beauty? A destined connection in this life, a longing born from her, a turn of the head leaving behind only unrequited love between her brows, a thousand years of fleeting time, searching and seeking, only to transform into the eternity of ink and brush. Those lingering, poignant sorrows are sadly sung in dreams, the world stained by ink, repeatedly tinged with desolation in tearful eyes. How many romantic moments under the moon, how many vows of eternal love, a single turn, and they are easily separated by the ends of the earth. Those stories drifting through the years, in an instant, have become fleeting passersby. A thousand years of waiting, how much helplessness and sorrow, like flowing water, carrying a wisp of bygone spring blossoms and autumn moons, falling into the infatuated sorrows of Tang and Song poetry, transforming into a vast and boundless separation.

A half-finished dream, a lifetime of sorrow, three lifetimes exhausted, yet the old love is nowhere to be seen. Time turns, a thousand-year-old dream is guarded, lingering under the pen. One line of words, a thousand lines of tears, how many times has the mortal world been filled with melancholy? Lonely wandering, who can hold onto whose distant horizon? The mortal world deepens the sorrowful dream, the waiting is like looking through autumn waters. Prosperity has intoxicated the ink, painting the love and hate entangled in the mortal world. Longing holds back the fleeting years, waiting for a song of parting in this life. Prosperity fades, leaving behind only a piece of sorrow and longing for the fleeting years.