That year, you put on a Manzhu Shahua flower for me and said to me with a smile: My pupils are the most suitable for this color. Today, I stroked your cheek with my hand stained with the juice of the Biangan flower, and whispered softly: I don't know how beautiful your pure snow would be if it were stained with the color of blood. On the bank of the Wangchuan River, I see you leaving, and I must drink the water of the Wangchuan River. On the edge of the cliff of love-ending, facing your smile, I still stretched out the hands that pushed you. Is it the entanglement of several lifetimes that created the reluctance between you and me? I especially remember that the name you carefully carved on the Sansheng Stone remains the same.