Who am I, the pen-tip boy who longs for me day and night? Turning into songs in the deserted roads of the deserted city;
Who is the vermilion tear mole on the corner of your eyelashes? In the fleeting years of the next life, I will be as sad as a summer flower;
Who am I, the dejected person with dark eyebrow lines? The vicissitudes of life in the deserted city of Qianmo are picturesque;
Who is the prison mark carved on your palm? Eternal in the starlight at your fingertips.
That year, I came here with my luggage on my back. I loved this city, the intersection of sun and dusk here, and the alleys and corners here. Now, when I left sadly, the city was filled with sadness and snow.