The rapid scenery and fleeting years are fleeting.
The life in the arena where they go hand in hand is just wishful thinking on her part.
After eight years of looking up, I got stuck in the mud.
The songs of my youth were slowly played by the lyre.
It's just that times change.
It turned out that they had already been separated in the dim light of grass and smoke.
He never liked waiting.
I don't like letting go either.
I wish.
Like flowers and leaves, they share the spring breeze year after year.