Looking out the window is the gray forest of Manhattan. The lights have not yet been lit, and there are faint blue clouds overhead. The winter in this prosperous city is actually a bit desolate. Unknowingly, I fell into a trance and thought of an old song - the blooming flowers in spring, the wind in autumn and the setting sun in winter. I once thought this ignorantly in my melancholy youth.
I don't remember how long I have been in a foreign land. When I was young, my ambition was to "travel thousands of miles and read thousands of books." Although thousands of books have not been read yet, thousands of miles have been traveled long ago. The dusty roads in my hometown have long been forgotten. When I go back many years later, I am surprised to find that the greenness in my memory has long been replaced by noise and thick dust. Strange people speak strange languages, so - I sigh at the unconscious age...
Intention: