That day, I closed my eyes in the temple incense, suddenly you hear the mantra; that January, I moved all the tube, not for free, just to touch your fingertips; that year, kowtowing prostrate on the mountain road, and not for the throne, just to stick with you the warmth of the world;, turned around mountains and water pagoda, not to repair the afterlife, only to meet with you on the way. That January, I turned all the cone, not for free, just to touch your fingerprint; in that year, I kowtowed hugging the dust, not for toward the Buddha, only for the warmth of your; that I, I turned over one hundred thousand mountains, not to repair the afterlife, only for the road can meet with you; but, at that night, I forgot all, faith, abandoned metempsychosis, only, the weeping before the Buddha in the rose, had lost the old luster