The setting sun is like blood, dyeing the blue-gray tombstone ocher. Five tombs lie quietly on the hill, the last one is empty, the monument has been erected, but there is no name. The wind blows through the pine forest, rustling like a whisper, seeming to tell the story of six names - ideals that once ignited like sparks in troubled times and eventually turned into dust.
"The mountains and rivers are broken, the wind flutters with catkins, the life experience is ups and downs, and the rain hits the rafts." The ink color of this poem engraved on the central tombstone has faded, but the traces of the words are still deep. No one knows how these six people went from being strangers to being side by side, and how they went from being side by side to being separated forever. I only know that they once used their flesh and blood to try to hold up a sky that was about to collapse in the age of iron and fire.
Today, the sky remains the same and people have become dust.
