Night, cold. The sound of jackdaws is far away, and the sky is covered with frost. The moon is like a hook, shining brightly in the late night. Sitting alone in front of the case, my mind is dim. Staring into the distance, I can't see through it. If I can't see the beauty, I'll be as before, on the horizon; if I can't see the beauty, my heart will be broken, how many more years will it be? I dreamed several times that there were wild geese in the sky, and I suspected they were flying across the mountains with brocade books. Fight to know me, the wind and rain are changing, and the years are far away. Desperately looking forward to it, speechless! There is no way to think of lovesickness, a kind of lovesickness is both bitter and sweet.