Smoothly slanted on the rocks, the water gently swirls

The breath of a young flower

White morning dew awaits a hand

Soft hands, tender hearts, sitting with pen, listening

Ink becomes the sky, strokes become the wind, silently speaking

Between two winters, a lifetime passes by

In silent love

Writing high mountains, writing long rivers

Writing the names of ancestors in a silent foundation

Writing sorrow, writing acceptance

So that ink can replace words, what lips have not spoken

The bamboo at the end of its body never breaks, the hand learns to follow

Each letter carries a breath of life

Carrying imperfections, carrying time

Not a personal offering, not a kiss

Just presence

Ink may fade, but meaning does not

Writing with gratitude, writing with deceit

Writing with a hundred years of silence

And today's light lets the pen move slowly

To seek ahead in every gentle joy

We return

Water dries in the forest, paper lies still

The soul remains

The soul remains

Smoothly slanted on the rocks, the water gently swirls

The breath of a young flower

White morning dew awaits a hand

Soft hands, tender hearts, sitting with pen, listening

Ink becomes the sky, strokes become the wind, silently speaking

Between two winters, a lifetime passes by

In silent love

Writing high mountains, writing long rivers

Writing the names of ancestors in a silent foundation

Writing sorrow, writing acceptance

So that ink can replace words, what lips have not spoken

The bamboo at the end of its body never breaks, the hand learns to follow

Each letter carries a breath of life

Carrying imperfections, carrying time

Not a personal offering, not a kiss

Just presence

Ink may fade, but meaning does not

Writing with gratitude, writing with deceit

Writing with a hundred years of silence

And today's light lets the pen move slowly

To seek ahead in every gentle joy

We return

Water dries in the forest, paper lies still

The soul remains

The soul remains