『Young General』
The folds of fate are you weeping. A person is like a candle; the ashes around it ignite a lifetime at the touch. Yet the flame always rises upward. What if it is unfair? To snuff it out takes only a single thought. Beneath a thousand words as thin as cicada wings, yes, a person's hustle and traces will eventually turn into a thin layer of soil. Someone's hot tears fall on its cold shell; it says nothing, can only fall silent and stir up the wind. And so we accept death. The process is inevitably bumpy, and weeping becomes the outlet. "They were alive right before my eyes—how is it they vanish without a word?" You complain to heaven, and heaven only pats your head, but does not wipe away your tears. You have too many whys: why love makes people let go, why hate makes people bow their heads, why one must leave, why one meets again. Everyone tosses down the word "fate"—this is what you were meant to repay. When your hands are stained with mud, you need not cast it away because of the dampness. Most people have passed through your world and left deep footprints. You plead again and again, only to end in bitter tears. Yes, your feelings are actually weightless; what is squeezed from you is tears, your pacing in bewilderment. Perhaps you must be strong; even with a throat choked, you must keep walking. What will let you go will not be time, and certainly not life; what you must wander through is your own suffering. You have soaked too long; when you swell, you will be picked up. The folds of fate are you weeping.
I don't want anything anymore, okay? I only want you—just one life, one lifetime, the two of us.