On that day,

I closed my eyes and was in the fragrant fog of the temple.

I suddenly heard the truth in your hymn;

In January of that year,

I shake all the curved pipes,

Not to cross over,

Just to touch your fingertips;

That year,

Kowtow and climb the mountain,

Not for the audience,

Just to stick to your warmth;

At that time,

Put mountains, water and pagodas,

Not for the afterlife,

Just to meet you on the road.

In January of that year,

I gently turned all the curved pipes,

Not to cross, just to touch your fingerprints;

That year, I kowtowed and embraced the dust.

Not to worship Buddha, just to stick to your warmth;

At that time, I searched hundreds of mountains,

Not to repair the afterlife, just to meet you on the road;

It's just that that night, I forgot everything,

Abandoned faith, abandoned reincarnation,

Just for the rose that once cried in front of the Buddha,

Has long lost its former glory.