Qingming, light rain.
The green bamboo umbrella appears in the bamboo forest dyed by the drizzle.
The mist rises from the mountains, rolling up the past like smoke.
Who has left, who is still in this world, hanging around.
There is no solitary grave thousands of miles away, but I can still find the place where you sleep even in the vast sea.
Last year at this time, I buried you with my own hands.
Conception: