I do not want to quote the old, and yet young, fragile word—your kisses are ice-cold, like the pale moon. From within your vision I see hesitating, nitpicking, and unfathomable wavering. You look at the sky full of stars, seemingly searching. . .
We might be shallow if indulged in relaxation. We have been so exhausted before trudging a long way to fall into the river of love. I am expecting your apology, which you never say easily. I am praying for your commitment, which you make as if you never care. All these happen just without efforts as it seems.
On a dawn we sit on a bench by the lake. Light breezes ripple the water, smashing the shadows of you and me into a misty memory. I am always here for your lonely soul to snuggle up against, whereas you only let me clutch your hand, which is freezing.
Were nature sentient, she too would pass from youth to age; but man’s world is mutable, seas become mulberry fields. All struggling, torment and seeking would be gone.
Our oaths are like the night bell on Nanping Mountain, the rising and falling melody of the music instrument, the emerald tree swaying in the western breeze, and a silhouette in the glittering sunset. We hug each other, and yet in our embrace is not the other one but ourselves. In tears and ineffable ecstasy, we drift along this boundless ocean of sorrow, not turning around. Neither do you nor me.
Thus each of us has savored the ineffable solitude, an inter-puzzling agony, the fatigue through wearing each other out, the fear after we both saw the dark and dust of the other’s heart .
When we love to the bone, our withered heart is tormented and torn apart by having to face departures. Our hearts were exiled where happiness is too far to reach, where there is but our bittersweet expectation of love. We love this person, along with all living things—the sky, the earth, mountains and rivers. The soul is in nausea and anxiety, for the bygone rainy days.
Feelings surge like rushing rivers, and fluctuate like turbulent oceans. True love is always solemn and stirring, true love is always of solitude, just like darkness before dust. . . .
When can we touch our love and do not feel like touching our own wounds? When can we listen to our love not feeling like hearing feedback of our desperate call of life? And when is your solitude mine, your blood my tears? Lonely we would both open two doors of the heart, and let our breath make a concerto even in a day of no sun. At that moment solitude creates a magnificent savor. It is not only the tranquility of the Nanshan Mountain, the dawn and shimmering moonlight, the sunset at the desolate desert, and the lonely smoke rising above the river. It is more of peaceful smiles and confident departures. In a world filled with only joy and happiness, solitude is the haven of calmness. We savor the joyfulness of solitude, just as we chew olive, to taste its bitterness and sweetness.
Love is the monsoon of melancholy. You and I listen to life in the rain. There comes a gentle bell from the distance horizon. On a planet bathed in misty rain, you are a free bird flying high up in the sky, and I am but a lonely soul floating in the dark, stormy sea.
不想透露那句古老而又年轻得脆弱的话，你的吻是冰冷的，象苍白的月光。你的目光透射着迟疑，挑剔和捉摸不定的游移，你望着满天星斗，恍惚在寻找着什么……
轻松也许显得肤浅，我们都已经很累很累，历经长途跋涉才涉入情感的爱河，我等待着你永远不轻意的歉意，我祈祷着你若无其事的许诺，这一切都是那么的随意。
我们并坐在黄昏湖畔的长椅上，风轻拂水面，把你和我的倒影搅碎成一片模糊的回忆，我是你孤独灵魂的偎依，而我只是抓紧了你冰冷的手。
天若有情天亦老，人间正道是沧桑，一切的挣扎，煎熬，寻觅都是过眼云烟。我们的誓言象南屏晚钟，象悠扬的琴音，如西风碧树，晚霞剪影。我们彼此拥抱，拥抱的只是自己，我们含着泪珠忍着难言的喜悦，杂乱无章地顺着无边的苦海游荡，你不回头...我不回头......
就这样，我们各自都体会到了一种难于言表的孤独，孤独是相互迷惑的阵痛，是相互鬓厮磨后的疲惫，是彼此窃见自己心之一隅尘圾后的惶恐。
爱到深处，憔悴的心灵被生离死别的期待煎熬着，心被流放到远离幸福是地方，永远是对情人渴望太久太甚的苦涩，爱情人，爱情人的天空，大地，山川河流，一切有灵性的万事万物。灵魂的悸动，焦灼，为雨季不再来，感情一如浩浩荡荡的江河，汹涌澎湃的海洋，真正的爱情永远是悲壮，孤独的，象黎明前的黑暗.......
什么时候，我们抚摸情人不再如抚摸自己的伤痕，什么时候，我们倾听情人的呢喃不再如倾听自己呼唤生命冗长的回声，什么时候，你的孤独就是我的寂廖，你的血液就是我的眼泪，我们会孤单的打开两扇心扉，让我们的呼吸在没有太阳的白昼也协奏，这时候，孤独是美轮美唤的别有样情调，不仅是悠然南山，雪月黄昏，沙漠落日，长河孤烟，更是淡然微笑，洒脱挥手，生之悲欢，死之离合，欢乐淋漓的世界里，孤独是冷静的休憩。我们体验着孤独的欢愉，如咀嚼橄榄的苦涩与甘甜。
爱情是忧郁的季风，我和你在雨中默默倾听着生命的足音，从遥远的地平线轻轻响起钟声，在一片烟雨的星球上，你是天上的一沙鸥，我是星海单孤魂
（兼职编辑：杨帆）
