Red beaded hands, yellow vine wine, the city is full of spring scenery and willows on the palace walls. The east wind is evil and happiness is thin. A cup of melancholy, a few years away. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Spring is as old as ever, people are thin and empty, and the tears are red and raw. The peach blossoms have fallen, and the pavilion is idle. Although the mountain alliance is there, it is difficult to hold the brocade book. Mo, mo, mo.
A half-broken black and white photo, a secret love affair from many years ago, the joys and sorrows of a generation, and an indelible mark left by an era.
Maybe we have been hurt before, but only time can witness that beautiful and immortal memory.
Don't ask what we have lost, just ask what we can still grasp in this minute and this second.