Half a lifetime. Love cannot be retained in this world.
Weeping in the pavilion, quietly staggering under the green trees
Perhaps, one night, when thousands of pieces of red flowers and mist are broken, you will think of those years spent under the old trees in the cold smoke of your old city.
You already have a withered face,
And I have already become soil.
Human affairs are scattered into the dust of the world, only the fragrance remains the same.