A lone plume of smoke rises in the desert, and a beauty stands by herself.
Who still remembers that old drizzly day in Jiangnan? Who remembers the hopeless love from the days when we were young?
We sang songs of longing together, holding our pipa until the sun sank in the west. Lingbi handprints span the ages. When will we meet again at Naihe Creek?
What lies between us is not just a third person, but two thousand years of time and all the rivers, mountains, and kingdoms between us.
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