When I was a child, my father often held me and sat under the old locust tree in the yard, watching the old locust tree gently swaying its trunk under the leisurely noise of summer cicadas, and the light yellow flowers floating down, chanting in my ears, "Quiet Girl, waiting for me in the corner of the city." Love but not see, scratch one's head and hesitate. The quiet girl is promiscuous, which makes me troublesome. Tongguan Youwei, said that the girl is beautiful. Since shepherding and returning to grassland, it is beautiful and unique. The gangster girl is beautiful, and the beautiful woman is the beauty. . . I asked my father why it was always because of this poem, but he never answered me. He just narrowed his eyes slightly, patted my head, looked at me kindly, and then stared at the old Sophora japonica flower in silence, lost in thought. I don't understand, but I also know that I shouldn't disturb Dad at this time. Because at that time, there was always a hint of sadness in my father's eyes. . .