Cold Food Festival

No amount of wine warms my dish during Cold Food Festival. No one wants to sit beside the sour old man. My boat is drifting on the clouds reflected on the surface of the river. The shore is veiled in a fog to my old eyes. Butterflies fly wherever they wish and swallows glide over rushing water but I’m not a butterfly or swallow. The sky arches over the world and clouds drift over green mountains. Even if I think of home, I only worry.