Tale of Bitter Cry

As frosty skies darken toward evening, mist shrouds the distant peaks and riverbanks. Through wind and rain, a lone sail drifts, its rise and fall beyond anyone's control. Secretly testing the golden needle, one sighs that this body scatters like willow catkins. Thinking of departure, spring hills linger between the brows; old dreams fade, and the crescent moon sighs low. A thousand peaks seem to break and reconnect—how can one bear the fine rain and the migrating wild geese? Candlelight flickers red through a sleepless night, shining in vain on white robes and blue curtains. This fleeting life is like smoke; pure joys are hard to hold, and lingering regrets are hard to dispel. Even gathering a lapful of wind and dew, all is given to the autumn ravine. — Description from novelcodex.org