Moonlit Path

By the descending of the brilliant sun comes the violet canvas of the pearlescent moon and a glimpse of the orange twilight. Far aside the dusk of the rise of the celestial orb, let the wanderer walk on the path of his aspiration. A path lit by the light of his searching; his mind glows bright, so has the shadow of mindlessness retreated faraway. A path extended through the mediation; a path filled by gardens and sunshine, by all that ignite his spirit on and over.

A lit path under the darkness of night: as if thirsted soul suddenly finds the fountain of satiated life, a sense of fascination has grown within your heart. It feels as you have reconciled with the absence of omniscient light, for that the chanter shall illuminate himself upon walking under the dimmed sky. Ah, you have never relied upon a fixed destination over your course, in a way that your steps are the crafts of your consciousness – a constant state of your own.

My devotion has shown clear over the path unbeknownst to the recognition of mine, but as far as my sight would tell, the path leads to nothing but unrestrained black – a black blackened by its own, the end of the road, the end of the ending. I shall not continue the search of this night, as should I step forward for once, my soul would be devoured by once. But the journey shall not meet its resolution by the recession of my pace; hence will I find the way that lurks either within or without.

Shortcut have you taken, yet it is the path accompanied by the demon of avarice; any misstep taken would damn you into the purgatory of redemption, a much longer road for the sinners to crawl over. Friend, do never be blinded by the fiery will of greed, for what lies behind such hallucination is infinite dark. Turn yourself over, before the salvation fails to grab your arm. The staircase shall lead your way.

Thus have the man corrected himself of the fallacy, as he steps onto the stairs. Will I follow the will of my vision and thus appreciate the beauties to be seen. A staircase blessed by the golden leaves of those trees aside, where the bewitched soul once unraveled the strangling of his heart; a staircase bounded afar by the dark blue firmament of the night sky, followed by a wooden bridge fenced with glass panes. Let the branches be your arms, so that the golden leaves will enchant you with splendid auspice! Let the bridge be your feet, so that you shall bypass the obstacles that stay still, overlooking beyond the view of the city!

The staircase has led my way. Now I am the passenger over the ocean of dirt and soil, a passenger onboard the secret path. Look above; have I seen the moon hanging aloft. Ah, it has always been the canvas of the pearlescent moon, of a glimpse of the twilight. But now the moon rises to its height, with the twilight fulfilled its way: the twilight has become the moonlight, and the moonlight shines as bright. The moonlight passes down, an aurora of pure white. It travels through the night skies, so are the skies covered by a thin layer of purified silk. It dives into the golden leaves, so are they enlightened; it descends upon the path, a shard of shade, followed by a stripe of marking – so has it become the moonlit path.

The path yet goes so deep and unknown, but the moonlight stays for much as long. Ah, look closer to what lies in the forward, for that it is nowhere but the former residence of mine. Much as what I visited and saw before, the site remains as a station that holds my far past. Yet when nighttime arrives, it feels more tranquil and solemn. Let me walk through the path; let me walk through my path.

Here walks the wanderer over the moonlit path: what remains to be heard are his steps, wind whispering, and the Moonlight Sonata. Here lies the first movement of the sonata – as slow and as calm. Ah, his steps are the hits of a piano, his breath, the rhythm. Moonlight is occasionally obstructed by the leaves and the gray wall, leaving a block of dark blanket upon the white path. Thus as he walks through, shades fade on his body, over his eyes. His eyes are the reflection of the moon.

I have envisioned a bridge over a city, much as the moonlit path, but is greater and more magnificent. Blurred images yet told a platform high above a mountain beside the city and lamps lighting the wooden floors. I was there, walking, meditating, unaware of where I would stroll toward. Alas, I know where it belongs: it belongs to those I once have seen upon a journey to the southern lands. Was I much innocent, full of light and aspirations. It took place and was sealed within three years ago; it never returned until now, as but a glimpse of the reminiscence and nostalgic grief. It was me.

The sonata remained in the first movement, sentimental and sad, much as his forgotten past. He nevertheless has to escape from the tragedy of his own, for that he now walks upon the moonlit path. Three years have passed, so has the sonata entered the third movement – the verse of much vibrancy and appreciation, just as how the wind blows so fast across the leaves. Summertime has arrived; let the movement of creatures and lives mobilize his petrified heart.

Run, as I cannot help the path reminding me of the searched past; run, for that the path is close to meet its end. What awaits me is the openness of a road. That is when the sonata will embrace its climax. And now I am on a vast road where cars move in a transience. Once again have those lights stabbed my eye, a rain of neon light. Yet within the moment where everything stays still, the sounds were gone, and the sonata embraces its resolution after a storm of notes – the world falls into quietness, into nonbeing.

I step by the road; I rest by the trees. The former half of the circle was drawn under brilliant light; the latter did not form until the moon shines the path. Hence reads the unfinished verse:

Man who stepped over the dune.
On a path lit by the moon,
Over the sonata’s tune.