Days are bitter.


Tasting bitter at the root of the tongue with Huanglian (coptis), both awake and dreaming are bitter.
The eaves shed tears, drop by drop, smashing the steps into wounds.
Why is it that everyone’s days are bitter?
At dusk, others’ eyes shine with a lamp.
In my eyes, only endless dust remains.
Opening my hand, even the lines on my palm exude a bitter taste.
Heavenly Lord, you are so merciful.
I no longer want to chew mud and dream of sweetness.
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