It almost always rains in spring in Lingnan.
In the rolling mountains, the vegetation is lush, the bluestones are silent, the green bamboos are still wet with tears, and occasionally the cuckoo cries are heard. Everything that is silent, sad, and full of vitality is hidden in the misty rain, leaving only a blurry silhouette.
Three miles upstream against the clear stream, there is a bamboo building standing in the rain. There are rows of flowers beside the railing on the building. A light grass-colored figure is leaning among the flowers, playing with the flowers and leaves with bare hands, and the silver bracelet on his wrist is shining slightly.