It is said that time is a beautiful flower. Only those who bend down to pick it know that such beauty, with a faint fragrance, is a kind of poison, a harmful poison, which makes people helpless.
The youth imprisoned in the years, in the dark cage, exudes hoarse longings, longing for the light to penetrate the wall of time, stationed in the empty wilderness, singing the prosperity over and over again.
In the years of living in scraps, the wind and sand blew away layers of our stubbornness, and then peeled off a layer of tender skin, revealing our grown-up bones, with clear and intricate lines on the road full of thorns, and pain pricking our feet...