The mountain moon knows not the matters of my heart, yet spills the Milky Way upon my shoulders

The mountain moon knows not the matters of my heart, yet spills the Milky Way upon my shoulders When dawn pierces the clouds, the poplar forest shakes off stardust from its branches. Golden leaves rustle in the wind, like countless ancient coins chiming, or like bronze bells left behind by camel caravans a millennium ago, whispering unfinished tales of the Silk Road. Beneath my feet, the soft sand carries the scent of withered wood, and with each step, I hear the sound of time shattering—these three-thousand-year-old trees stretch their dead branches toward the sky, as if grasping at drifting clouds or recounting legends of time's passage to passing travelers. Rounding a mountain ridge, the Sky Lake suddenly bursts into view. Its blue is not as bold as Sayram Lake's, but rather like a teardrop hidden by the heavens, so clear you can see slumbering stars at its depths. Cloud shadows drift across the water, entwined with reflections of distant snow-capped peaks, while swans occasionally glide by, their necks tracing arcs more graceful than any verse. Kneeling by the shore to wash my hands, the icy water laps at my fingertips, and for a moment, I can't tell whether I touched the lake or the lake embraced me. Climbing the winding mountain path, the snowy pass flickers in and out of the mist. Bitter winds hurl snowflakes against my cheeks, but nothing dulls the awe of reaching the summit—endless snow peaks gleam like divine palaces, radiant with sacred light. Gasping in the thin air, my chest swells not just with hypoxia but with reverence for nature's power. The anxieties and weariness accumulated in the city are swept away by the storm, leaving only a pure heart to commune with the universe. As night falls, scattered lights twinkle across the meadow camp. We gather around the bonfire, listening to our guide's tales of the Milky Way. Suddenly, someone points skyward with a gasp. I look up and hold my breath—the galaxy spills like overturned milk from the mountaintop into Sky Lake. Countless stars blaze overhead, the Big Dipper's handle nearly within reach, while meteors streak across the firmament, landing deep in the poplar forest and stirring golden glimmers. Lying in the grass, I hear my heartbeat sync with the Milky Way's pulse, realizing how small yet how fortunate we are to witness such grandeur. Dawn arrives too soon on the day of departure. Packing up, dew soaks my pants like the earth's tears of farewell. Glancing back, the poplar forest stands silent, Sky Lake glows softly, and the snowy pass peeks through clouds. Though the Milky Way has faded, it seems to still swirl above. As the off-road vehicle kicks up dust and exits the mountain pass, I understand: this journey didn't just yield photos—it gifted me time to converse with my soul. Back in the city, neon replaces starlight, and traffic drowns out mountain whispers. Yet in quiet nights, memories of the poplar forest, Sky Lake, the snowy pass, and the Milky Way resurface. They remind me: in this fast-paced world, there's always a sanctuary for weary souls, and encounters with nature that restore our inner peace and strength. Perhaps this is travel's true meaning—we cross mountains and wilderness only to meet the most authentic version of ourselves.