Chuang Qian Ming Yue Guang

Underneath the pale moonlight, my hands rest upon my knees, bathing in the pools of bitter black and white. The night whispers sweet memories to the leaves and the trees. I can't help but think of home. I was alone. I once gazed from far away, those tortured trees--they rocked and swayed--clipping the stream of life, the rays of tranquil night. Now again I sit, head bowed, wallowing in scattered rays. I am alone.