Light divides itself quietly on the windowpanes, Spilling into an unfinished chapter of verse. The ink stains of the old year are still damp, While the new breeze has already knocked on the long corridor— I am still that traveler chasing after messengers, Carrying half a map and a few stars; Even as I traverse the misty valleys, I can still discern the undulating distant mountains, As constant as the longing of a first encounter. And your names, Are bells hanging by the roadside; With a gentle breeze, They ring out soft echoes— Sending ripples of warmth and companionship through the lonely night. When the bell tolls across the paper, May all our journeys Find their resting place in a gentle land bathed in light. The road extends quietly in the darkness; We carry our complete selves, Stepping towards the distant horizon gently kissed by the next dawn. — From the Home of Love