Flowers and plants cover our house; I just want to grow old with you
I have read Shu Ting's "To the Oak"
I have read Gu Cheng's "The Kite"
I have read Tagore's "The Furthest Distance in the World"
I have read Petofi's "I Am Willing to Be a Rushing Stream"
I have read Dai Wangshu's "Rain Alley"
I have read Zheng Chouyu's "Mistake"
And I have also read Xi Murong's "A Blooming Tree"
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Yet for a long time I still did not understand love thoroughly enough. Perhaps it is not as mysterious as you and I imagine; perhaps it is simply a slow growing old with time, you and I gradually becoming inseparable.
I dream of an old house, where you and I live, together with the flowers and plants surrounding the house.
If one day you find plants beginning to climb onto your house, do not reject them.
When the house grows old, and you and I grow old too, the old house will be draped in thick new life, no longer afraid of wind and sun, no longer afraid of time slipping away.
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An old house, a stretch of light and gentle years, a stone bridge in front of the door, where I once held your hand and walked across.
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One day we will grow old, just as these flowers and plants on the wall will wither. Winter goes and spring comes, the flowers and plants will bloom again, and in our dreams youth is still there.
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When I took your hand, the Boston ivy had just begun to sprout; when white hair covers both our heads, the Boston ivy will have covered our home as well.
I want to stay by your side and watch the abundant flowers of spring, the red leaves of autumn, and then sit under the setting sun, drink a cup of tea, and talk again about the sweet words of those years.
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