Out for a walk in the spring evening, the night drawing near. The only thing on my mind is that I want to go home.
source: woodsigh
I am here, quietly expectant of the days to come, wishing for wings to carry me away. The countless days and nights I have spent here seem to have crystallized into this single winter, into this golden glow of evening.
source: woodsigh
Another winter arrives, and I have watched the sun sink into the horizon here more times than I can count. This place is my fortress — and also my prison.
source: woodsigh
The river flowed silently through the city, and there was a warm, rusty smell in the air.
source: woodsigh
In autumn, when the sunlight fell soft and warm, and the fruits were silently coming to ripeness, I remained like summer—my memories of those days still adrift.
source: woodsigh
In spring, it is raining, roses blossom and roses fade, yet some people will always meet again.
source: woodsigh
When the second winter arrived,
the landscape wore the same familiar face.
I believed, at the time,
that freedom was finally within reach.
Looking back now,
it was merely the first step
into a journey of highs and lows.
source: woodsigh
One winter, ice in my hands —
a memory held.
That tree, reshaped by summer storms.
So hold dear the ordinary things.
source: woodsigh
As my summer nears its end, what I had let slip from memory, I now recall through these images.
Perhaps for me, freedom always costs a bit of unfreedom.
source: woodsigh
