Deer Lake, the younger sister of Lake Burnaby,
Is in the autumn of her life journey.
She looks peaceful,
Feels genial,
And dresses royal.
Birds glide above her,
Ducks wander around her,
And I walk 6 km all the way to kiss her. 

                        A bungalow sits at the rim of the golden green meadow,
                        She was the one my fantasy embraced when I was not so old.
                        Now as I come and walk around,
                        She can no longer touch me in the profound,
                        And I can't help feeling sad that
                        My imagination could no longer be found. 

I know it sounds weird,
But Burnaby Art Gallery,
Hiding in Central Garden,
Does remind me of Tang Li,
Who was an artist born in Soong Dynasty.
Perhaps it's just the zephyr whiffing my face as I stand here
That makes me feel the breeze flowing through the pine trees in his masterpiece.

Four months ago,
On a starry breezing night,
When I sat at the lustrous green meadow
Listening to the music rippling from the stage performed by BSO,
They were rustling high in the sky,
with delight. 

Four months after the symphony,
They are lying detached in the chilly.
Then a moment of empathy,
I know they will be back
And whisper the songs of their journey
In the next spring harmony. 

                               Hungered for inspirations? Poor of creativities?
                               Come and sit under the golden cotton trees.
                               I assure you won't agonize over them anymore,
                               For you will leave behind the vexations you had before.