That year, the light summer was still young, half of the city's mountains were confused in the mist and rain. That year, the gentle breeze swept up your hair, which was as long as black. That year, I wrote Ping Xuan, and my fingertips recorded a moment that I will recall for a lifetime. That year, the white frost was flawless, and the young man sat quietly in the sweet dream of Chang'an for a lifetime.
The scenery is no longer there, the years are changing secretly, someone is owed a promise, and someone is betrayed, the landscape painting in the memory has turned yellow, and is gradually drifting away in the torrent of time...
Sigh: Beauty grows old, but the years are quiet and peaceful.