Your Hand is a book, a movie, and a drama, and the plot is related to love. From the palm of your hand to your eyes, I can read the joy of meeting, the pain of parting, and the inseparability.
Your hands are like a song, a piano, and a performance. With a gentle squeeze of your hand, your voice and form are held in the clouds and moons of eight thousand miles away, and the longing of a foreign country far away.
Your hands are a road, a river, and a mountain. We have held them together through the time we have flown and climbed. They have been planted in the palm of your hand. When I am alone in a foreign land, I will sow in spring and harvest in autumn. I will harvest the journey, harvest the river water, and harvest the mountains.
I don’t want to let go of your hand, I just don’t want to let go of your tenderness. Opening your hand can open your singing voice as bright as the moonlight, open the parting back in the drizzle, open your tears and your attachment.
I don’t want to let go of your hand, I just don’t want to let go of your warmth. It is the warm sun in winter that melts the long-lasting ice in my heart, and it is the starlight that illuminates my way home during the long sleepless night.
I don’t want to let go of your hand, I just don’t want to let go of your ties. What holds hands is no longer a form, but a fresh breath, and a meaning of spending the last days of life together.