—Written for Every Ordinary Person

In my youth, I often raged,

Wondering why I always felt like dust in parades and protests,

The grand chorus felt pale,

The bustling crowd never understood my reason for existence.

Indifference couldn't match my generous heart,

In the cycle of fate, each tear facing failure,

Laughing in your arms, yet still clueless about facing the future,

Fearful of a splendid rose wilting into remnants.

Perhaps everything, except for material evidence, turns to ashes, and is crushed,

Freedom becomes spilled water,

Foretelling harm.

Finally, I walked away alone,

Confessing to the depths of my soul,

But the more I thought, the less I understood,

Is the meaning and dignity of an individual a void of sorrow?

The rise and fall of the Peacock Throne,

Records tears lingering before history,

Whose life story doesn't hide a unique plaque?

Young life must use meaning to endow the future's ocean!

Perhaps everything, except for material evidence, turns to ashes and is crushed,

Freedom becomes spilled water,

Foretelling harm.

Did Ashoka's rock edicts ever unravel-

the rooftop of silence locked in people's hearts?

Perhaps only self-love is the best account of destiny.

Why do we need others to offer love,

The sympathy of the strong is just hypocritical care.

Perhaps everything, except for material evidence, turns to ashes and is crushed,

Freedom becomes spilled water,

Foretelling harm.

Please wait quietly,

When the haze covering the ordinary body disperses,

The flower of life will bloom in the soil that belongs to you.

Don't say you don't understand,

Nothing is more beautiful than the color of a unique individual.

If you don't believe it, listen,

The ordinary sighs tell of deep helplessness!