I once cried because I had an quarrel with you and got an intravenous drip for an upper respiratory tract infection. Because you had a new love, I washed all the clothes, sheets and quilts in spring, summer, autumn and winter, and rubbed my hands to pieces. I couldn't hold a pen for several days. But you were not doing well, so I went to the temple to pray for you to have a happy life.
If this is not love, what else is there to say?