The old city is blanketed in endless drizzle.
The peach blossoms beside the crumbling old house have long since withered.
Ivy now crawls over the once-snow-white walls.
Only a few celadon pieces remain inside, along with a figure in white.
Youth spent in full, years weathered and worn.
The streets are still as bustling as ever.
Pedestrians hurry along.
Yet no one remembers how, back then, someone could sing a few lines from an opera and capture all the splendor of the world.
