Ten years, the time flipped through pages,

Flows like water, embarking from the birth of the first book.

That initial scent of ink, like faint light in morning mist,

Once ignited the place where dreams began.

A hundred books, stacked into the weight of years,

Harboring countless untold vicissitudes.

Indescribable pain, a constant shadow,

Gnawing at the heart in the quiet of night.

Joy, like petals drifting down by chance,

Briefly fragrant, then scattered by wind and rain.

Sorrow, like the tide of the night,

Rising time and again, flooding the banks of the soul.

Words of blessing, like twinkling starlight,

Offering warmth, yet unable to pierce all darkness.

Voices of criticism, sharp as needlepoints,

Stinging, while leaving wounds of reflection.

These ten years, an individual stumbles through fate,

A nation breaks waves in the torrent of time.

We all ask: where lies the path?

Gazing into the distance, hearts brimming with confusion.

We strive to seek that unknown direction,

Unaware that it resides within our hearts.

On this long journey toward the horizon,

We yearn to discover our true selves—

Yet it feels like a mirage on the edge of the sky,

Always slipping away the moment we reach for it.

And so, on this road of pursuit,

Melancholy grows wild like vines,

Twining around every hope, every disappointment.

Wandering and wavering in the world of books,

A decade’s tale, inscribed with the marks of time’s weathering.

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