Who burns the smoke away and scatters the ties of vertical and horizontal.
Listen to the strings break, cut off those three thousand obsessions. The falling flowers are obliterated, and the wind is obliterated. If the flower is pity, it falls on whose fingertips.
But I don't know where the sound of the piano ends, who will take pity on the fallen flowers, and who lives for one person, with love and hate all dyeing the clothes.