She is a phoenix spreading its wings and about to fly, silently hiding her fierce color on the ground.
The golden horse, the silver hook and the iron painting, she came with blood on the ground, and in the shadow of the sword, it was like a prosperous and desolate scene.
The strong wind cannot catch the green years, and what is left on the thick city wall are the mountains and rivers written in the history books.
The lake is sparkling, the blue waves are long, the boat is on the water, the red clay stove is, and the green ants are brewing wine.
She vaguely recalled the black and white sky, which eventually turned into a lingering smile on her lips.
Time is quiet and good, and the years are fleeting.