Falling flowers don't understand the pain of a beautiful woman, who can pity her love.
Empty and sad, only melancholy, how can I explain the desolation of my heart.
The wind blows, the heart is cold, and the longing is long; staring at the river, the heart is broken.
We are both heartbroken people, but we don't know how much our hearts are broken.
I want to tell you their stories with my own hands. They are beautiful women who have been buried by history. Maybe my writing is immature, but I still have no hesitation.