In August, the clear sky hides the fragrance of chrysanthemums. As I walk alone, I look into the distance and see the vastness of the world.
Feeling dejected and yearning for my hometown, I raise my glass to the moon, play the piano and burn incense, to whom do I open my sorrowful heart?
Fallen flowers drift away with the flowing fragrance, crying for whom and hurting for whom.
They are just a mistake, a wrong intersection, a wrong acquaintance
Therefore, they can only be strangers, strangers twice and strangers for a lifetime. ． ． ． ． ．
Even if we meet, we are still strangers. . . . . .
Conception: