He waited in the cold Wangchuan River for three thousand years, watched a pair of lovers on the bridge drink Meng Po soup until death, and saw her walking across the Naihe Bridge again and again, but never glanced at him. He was a little at a loss, and he was gradually afraid that he would no longer have anything to do with her.
In fact, he is nothing and has nothing. How can he retain her hurried footsteps?