She stood atop the mountain. At that moment, she was like the beautiful magnolia blooming beneath the hill: neither sorrowful nor severe, but graceful and serene. Her lovely eyes held layer upon layer of feeling. The wind blew, lifting her green gauze and stirring a touch of sorrow in her heart, a wisp of grief, and a hint of warmth. Not a trace more, not a trace less. Happiness, resolve, and unwavering devotion. Even if seas dried up and mountains crumbled, how could she ignore such steadfast love and blithely betray the promise she had made? "Heaven may not grow old, but love is hard to sever." "I shall spend my days idly singing and chanting, composing them into the sound of a boatman's song." "Turn it into a song of longing."
