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It was the late autumn of the second year of Da’an, and it was the season when the poplar forests turned gold.
In the southern basins of the Western Regions, a rare sight appeared: desert and lake coexisting side by side. Amidst the pale yellow sands grew towering poplars in golden hues, each one shaped with ancient dignity, becoming the finest accent to the desert’s autumn scenery.
A jujube-red horse stood by the desert lake, its head lowered to drink. Nearby, a giant poplar tree bent gracefully overhead, its golden leaves dazzling. Beneath the tree sat a pile of travel packs—and a reclining Daoist.
Leaves had already fallen onto the packs, and onto the Daoist himself.
Having reached this spot, the Daoist found he truly didn’t want to move anymore.
After twelve years wandering the world, he had seen many kinds of autumn.
The bleak forests outside Yidu, veiled in white clouds; the reed paths by Mirror Island Lake, their white plumes swaying like carpets in the wind; the blood-red maple groves atop Yunding Mountain; the endless fields of rice and wheat across Hezhou and Guangzhou; the golden prairies of Yanzhou; and now, the fall foliage and quaint wooden cottages of the Western Regions, like a realm apart from the mortal...
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