White Dew Farewell

     The water had grown cold without my noticing. A night of longing condensed into glistening dewdrops, white and swaying on the grass stems. White Dew is like a woman, gracefully approaching in a simple white dress.

    When White Dew arrives, the clouds are still beautiful, the sky still blue, only the sky seems higher than ever before. Clouds drift gently across the high heavens, like cattle and sheep leisurely grazing on the grasslands.
    When White Dew arrives, tranquility and beauty abound; the fields quiet down, like a poem, intriguing and endlessly enjoyable.
    In front of the door is an orchard. In the clear, sweet season, a few flowers bloom as usual, most already bearing green fruit. The abundant, sweet days are like words hanging from the sparse branches of a tree.
    The river behind the village has thinned, like a woman who has taken care of her figure after years of refinement, appearing mature and charming. The reeds by the water's edge are like a mature woman, her longing blossoming, sweet as autumn, charming and lovely.
    Wild geese flap their wings across the blue sky, stirring up gusts of autumn wind. The autumn wind carries a fragrant scent, gently caressing the golden chrysanthemums in the courtyard; their fragrance is as alluring as a woman's. With its vibrant brightness, it softens the desolate undertones of autumn, bringing the warmest feeling. Outside the courtyard, the maple forest in the distance, as if having drunk a cup of nectar, blushes red, the autumn wind caressing the leaves, a drunken stupor on the mountainside. At such a time, surrounded by maple leaves covering the mountains, one feels one's life merge with the blood of the red leaves, surging together with the passion of life.
    But tonight, the night sky seems to have a faint hissing sound, like autumn whispers. The moonlight, like frost, meanders for thousands of miles, three thousand clouds and moon, eight thousand autumn sounds.
    Tonight is peaceful; how many fallen flowers will drift away tomorrow, how many fallen leaves will fall?
    The Milky Way should be facing the southern mountains, the sea should be calling the tide to rise under the bright moon. The heavens are silent, and so is the world.
    I glanced back at the osmanthus tree in front of the door. Under the autumn moon, its fragrance filled my sleeves, its blossoms gathering and spreading slowly, eventually filling my study and the world in this autumn.