Cloud Patterns Overlap with Deep Hatred

In April in the south of the Yangtze River, mist and rain are like weaving. When Shen Yun's silver needle passed through the plain white soft satin, catkins were floating outside the window. The tip of the needle condensed into a little cold star in the morning light. As she turned her wrist, the silk thread traced a flowing arc - it was the edge of the butterfly wing, so thin that it was almost transparent, but it embroidered the trembling feeling that the morning dew was about to fall...