You are a dragonfly that touches the center of my lake, and then my memory becomes a skirt with ripples, even loneliness is embroidered with fine details. At this point, I am young and beautiful, and the autumn wind will spread the coldness to the earth. Under the bright sun, there was a low voice. I listened carefully, but all the news about you in the wind was called silence, and every miss was called forgotten. I shouldn't blame you for not reading Yeats's affectionate poems to me, because we didn't meet head-on, but you happened to pass by the middle of my lake when you were too tired. I shouldn't blame you for using a sycamore leaf to freeze my breath, because the anchor in your heart is too heavy and you are still looking forward to another adventurous voyage. I shouldn't blame you for exchanging a moment of lovesickness for my eternal remembrance, because you have a pair of flying wings and are destined to stay away from me. . . .