For a moment, the moon rises above the willow branches, and people come and go by the lake.
Someone was a guest, dressed in green clothes and carrying a bag, leaving no name or surname, purposeful or aimless, coming and going in a hurry. Someone puts out lanterns, writes their wishes on the paper, puts the origami paper on the wick, shares their concerns with a piece of tissue paper, and goes with the waves, resting at ease. Some people look at the flower boats, with the light smoke, the music of the piano, sometimes far and sometimes near, colorful lanterns, plain gauze and rouge dreams, and a pillow of yellow beams filled with laughter.
A small town in the south of the Yangtze River, with green bricks and black tiles, beside Qiansi Lake, with dancing shadows of trees. During the Lantern Festival, the streets are empty of people.