The scythe of Osiris, I have never seen it hanging on the shore. In the tombstone, the feather of truth jots down the heart of fate. Sitting on the sickle, I just want to ask, who can take Chrypso's heart?
In the lost direction, I have no navigation chess; the blending of sounds and colors guides the way.
In the land at the end of the world, without direction, day or night, warm or cold, I gradually understood what it was like to be deported.
The endless white sand imprisons the stranded soul; the lost charm belongs to the past and the future.
At the ends of the earth, the most beautiful flowers are longed for by everyone but have never been seen. No matter how fragrant they are, they are not left for years to come. They tremble slightly in the windless heart, wanting to complain silently.
All sorrow and anger will always leave a trace of joy, and all regrets will always leave a perfect corner. I am looking for the exit of hope in the frozen deep sea.
The bloody sun is half sinking on the sea level, weeds are falling in the rain, and the nightingale's soul is shattering, seizing the holy sewage, covered with the beauty of the gods, straddling time, the eternal life of death.