The mountain moon, like a piece of warm jade, is immersed in the ink-blue sky. You lie in a small wooden house by the stream, with the wooden window half-open, letting in bamboo shadows and fresh, moist wind.
The bamboo forest in front of the house rustles softly—not a hasty sway, but the tips of bamboo leaves brushing against each other, like the soft rustle of thread gliding over cloth as an old grandmother mends clothes. The wind carries the coolness of the stream, mixed with the faint fragrance of bamboo. Breathing it in, your chest feels light and relaxed, and the stiffness in your shoulders quietly melts away.
You listen closely: the stream gurgles gently beneath the house. The water flows neither fast nor slow—spring water from the mountain valleys converging, trickling down the blue stone slabs, and tapping against round pebbles, making a "ding-dong—ding-dong" sound, like someone gently ringing a bronze bell. Its rhythm matches your breathing perfectly. You inhale along with this rhythm, then exhale slowly—your lower abdomen rising like a billowing white sail, then gently falling.
Moonlight filters through the gaps in the bamboo, casting tiny silver spots on the floor beside your bed. When the wind blows, the bamboo shadows sway softly, and those silver spots ripple like circles in a pond, spreading slowly and then gathering again. As you watch these swaying shadows, your eyelids grow heavy.
From the distant mountain forest, a nightingale sings a low note occasionally—its voice as light as a feather, drifting over and then fading away. Beyond that, there are no other sounds: no noise of carriages and horses, no chatter of crowds, only the soft rustle of bamboo, the ding-dong of the stream, and the steady rhythm of your own breathing.
You feel your body growing lighter and lighter, as if lying on a cloud or floating in the stream, drifting slowly with the current. Your arms relax, your legs relax, and even the furrows between your brows smooth out, free of any tension. The trivial worries that lingered in your mind during the day sink to the bottom of the stream like sand, no longer visible or memorable.
The bamboo shadows still sway gently, the stream still flows slowly, and the moonlight, like a thin layer of silk, covers your body warmly and softly. You close your eyes, letting this peaceful atmosphere wrap around you, your breathing becoming slower and deeper.
The nightingale stops singing, the rustle of bamboo fades into the distance, and the stream's ding-dong turns into a vague murmur. Your eyelids feel too heavy to lift, and your consciousness, like cotton soaked in warm water, slowly scatters, drifting toward boundless tranquility.
Thus, accompanied by the mountain moon, bamboo shadows, and the stream, you gradually drift into a sweet, dreamless sleep, until dawn breaks.
