Time flies like water, withering like flowers.
Swallows return in spring, smoke and willow clouds return, and people are home ten miles away.
There are no flowers blooming and green branches and leaves, only the red leaves turn into spring mud.
When I met Qingsi Xue in what year, I suspected that I met an old friend in a dream.
The deep birch forest, flying fallen leaves, and twists and turns of the road can't be seen to the end. I fly gently on tiptoes, and when I look back, there is no trace of where I came from.
Deep in my memory, those people and things cannot be shaken off, cannot be clearly understood, cannot be understood, and cannot be forgotten. The smoke and clouds of the world, the vicissitudes of life, all the sadness, sighs, and helplessness eventually turned into a tear in the corner of the eye, across the cheek, and dried...
Intention: