Time is merciful, snowflakes gently dampen.

 　　No need to wait deliberately, you come naturally, blooming like a sea of ​​flowers on days when life doesn't dance.

　　If it weren't for your delicate petals, which I gently brushed into fine droplets, I would almost forget that you are a fleeting firework. You bloom passionately, like powder, like catkins, like butterflies.

　　On a blank sheet of paper, with simple strokes, you show me the splendor of spring flowers and the serene beauty of autumn leaves. A flower is a world, a leaf is a Bodhi tree; as insightful as you are, you must have transcended three lifetimes to willingly dwell your soul in nothingness.

　　Nothingness for you is self-emptiness; isn't the vast snow country a collection of tiny petals, fragrant and jade-like? Perhaps I forgot that when worldly desires turn into willow catkins stained with mud, you are no longer the fleeting flowers of time, touching too many colors and emotions.

　　Choosing lightness allows you to dance out the fragrance of your soul. You are not a painting, yet you can make the world a painting because of you. You meticulously sculpted the earth, even the simple fields became a treasured epic. The crisscrossing ridges and paddy fields, their intricate paths, were also vividly depicted by your jade brush. But you are not merely a praiser; how God viewed the creation of his hand, you also split your body into a fragrant offering. You gave completely, otherwise how could you move heaven and earth, giving birth to a rain of flowers?

　　In a single night, countless graceful blossoms bloomed. Pear blossoms adorned thousands of trees, chrysanthemums condensed into jade-like skin. At this moment, though the cool fragrance filled my sleeves, I suspected it was the spring breeze caressing my face.

　　Time startled the snow, enchanting the four seasons.

　　Looking at the snow through the threshold of spring, I so wish you were my tears and laughter, sending a snowflake to someone, to see if they would recognize me, this old friend of bygone years. Actually, it's hard to remember now, but this season, the snow became my first sense of loneliness. My first encounter with snow was only because of my first encounter with you.

　　Was it just a snowfall? Before you came, who was I? After you came, who am I? It was just a snowfall, yet my world was divided into two vast, separate shores. Spring is so short, just the time it takes for a snowflake to bloom.

　　I buried the fallen petals in the snow, and suddenly my spring mountains aged, youthful beauty turning to white hair—truly, a single thought can change everything. Before understanding, life is so light, nothing more than drifting catkins and floating dust; a fleeting dream, a half-cup of tea smoke, can easily while away the years. After the first snow, I also surrender my spring heart and chanting.

　　A flower blooms, a smile appears, a calm and serene heart, like a snowflake gently pattering. Walking my own path, singing a wordless song, my unchanging steps are simply to match the arrival of the season.

　　Sooner or later, you would never be born; you lay on the solemn, desolate air as your flowerbed, where you were conceived, turning a tear into a smile, and your flower bloomed. Alas, life often fails to understand the beauty of flowers; understanding comes too late for youth. In this cold world, one must ultimately warm oneself before sharing the flower of life with others. The blooming of flowers is not always accompanied by gentle spring breezes and soft rains; more often, it is a test of endurance and the weariness of waiting. But compared to the beautiful transformation that follows, this temporary and minor suffering is nothing.

　　The blooming of flowers is a dialogue with the origin, abandoning superficiality and returning to nature, like mist, dew, and lightning—a breathtaking blend of quietude and passion, like the cry of a divinely revealed land.

　　The stillness of the moment snowflakes open is breathtaking; birds vanish from the mountains, human tracks disappear from the paths, and the world seems to stand still. At this moment, nothing is more beautiful than the sound of falling snow, rippling with the heart's whispers, like a dream.

　　Amidst celestial music, a continuous stream of falling silk, jade fragments, and feathers descends from the sky—could it be that even the heavens have been startled by the shattering of someone's ethereal robes? They are all dancing spirits, gracefully pacing, as if finding peace and joy. A sudden gust of wind stirs them, and bees and butterflies dance wildly, as if immersed in a sea of ​​flowers, surrounded by boundless springtime splendor.

　　Flowers bloom in a thousand faces, transforming with fate, intentional yet unintentional, illusory yet real—this is how one, having seen all the splendor, maintains a simple and pure heart.

　　Snowflakes fill the curtains, spring veils are draped, sweet dreams linger, the brush tip holds elegance, on paper and desk. If at this moment, someone were to share a cup of clear tea, to grind a bowl of blue-and-white porcelain together, then this fleeting beauty of life would not have been in vain. But if the heart remains pure, there is no fear of the quiet joy of solitude. Snowflakes fall, past events, who remembers?

　　If one finds the coolness of a snowflake in one's heart, then one has granted the mercy of time, and constant peace. An empty heart, still snow, the red dust and purple paths, freely flying flowers, why stir up the dust? Life is like a game of chess, time sinks deep, it is difficult for one to truly leave the past, the lines in the palm, the splendor at the fingertips, mist is not mist, flower is not flower. However, if fate allows, all self-loss and confusion will cease with the coolness of a snowflake.

　　If one recognizes the purity of blooming flowers, even the most ordinary days can be the image of my own blooming flowers. Be yourself wholeheartedly, forget yourself, stand like a lotus, quietly blooming, with a gentle joy. Live a simple life, love gently, observe quietly in this floating world, be content with what you have, and find peace in your lot. Watch the flowers bloom, understand the coming and going, the arising and ceasing of causes and conditions, the changing seasons, but not the fleeting nature of romance. You don't need to be passionate every season to have lasting love. The latest snowflakes, refined by time, feel even more serene.

　　May time be merciful, treating my simple life with kindness; a few snowflakes on my paper are enough to bring peace to my heart.