The moon gleams peacefully through the window, bestowing every critter and the air with its tenderness. I sit in the room, shedding tears, in crystal clear, little drops—they are the sorrow of yearning, a helpless call from a drifter far from home. Looking at the lamp glowing piercing white, listening to its hiss, I believe it is the sound of evenings, of light, of the same yearning far away. It is the voice of night, the cry of the heart, one after another, time and again. I reach out to touch it. There is nothing to hold. But I feel it is there so real. Such a night is worth remembering one's whole life. I stroll along the road of reminisce, see gentle words walking continuously out of memory, and find the scenario before my eyes fluttering past. I pour myself a cup of hot tea, watch tea leaves unfold and blossom in the water, one, two, three. . . . They were in dozens growing from the center to the wall of the cup. Holding it in my palms, I feel its warmth, and right at this moment, my yearning has gone across mountains and waters, and tea fragrance permeates the whole room between my thoughts.
I gaze out the window, listen to bell of the past ringing long and far. The wind is blowing gently. Isn't it your affectionate greeting? You are a drop of sweet dew in the moon, and it falls into my heart of solitude, nourishes my clear, serene thought. You hear my short and long sighs of yearning tonight. Are you stepping into my dream? Don't you know, deep at night every day, I am expecting you here? Don't you hear my yearning is singing, through the fallen leaves that fly with the wind？ Each time when I come to this imagination, different types of sentiments erupt from the bottom of my heart, out into the tranquility and peace-sentiments of confession, tears, earnestness, expectation and dreams. I love the gleaming moonlight. Only in such a moon can one let his thoughts pile up, and merge with the color and texture of the night.
In a season of dreams, fantasy is almost not far from reality. Time comes flying through the space between tree leaves. Birds' chirping has gone far. Sound that has been cleansed by monsoon rushes past my ears. The moon hangs in the distance sky. Dry twigs sway in the wind, and linger at night. You are like ridges on which red leaves are burning, warming my soul of desolation. Days drift by slowly through the four seasons, but my heart is stuffed by heaps of yearning, no matter when it drizzles and turn chilly for days on end, or when the sun shines bright and the sky is blue and high. The ground is covered with fallen leaves. The wind has taken away my melancholy. I am at this moment not myself. My thoughts are blended with the wind, trees, grasses, sky and earth. I have never been so clear and hollow in the heart. There is pure tranquility in my mind, without the tiniest piece of mundane world lingering. The sky is deep blue, and the yearning heart is expecting my dear family afar.
Yearning is a beautiful sentiment, a pretty scenery. It is so good to see the elegance of spring, and the fruits of autumn harvest. Time elapses and life becomes enriched. I am always in earnest expectation of deep fall. I am fond of the golden fallen leaves covering the ground; I am excited about maturity that catches my eyes, and get-together reminisces with friends. yearning out of yearning is heaping. It changes into words, which flow under my fingers as I type on the keyboard. Words are, however, often weak. Yearning cannot fly without taking advantage of word. Just like seeds trying to look for a desirable position in the peaceful heart, it is waiting for the final blossom. I miss you each night, and I go to sleep with memory and expectation of you. . . . In dreams I endure bitter rain and harsh wind. I hover in the air and I see you, the one that I have been thinking of day and night. You, the same you, the countenance like yesterday, the eyes never changed, and the words still full of affections. What has changed is only time. And get-together is always hard and short. . . .
It is yearning that makes me love moonlight. Ain't I doomed to be indulged with moon all my life?