We have traveled through the south of the Yangtze River. The faces waiting in the seasons are like lotus blossoms. If the east wind does not come, the catkins of March will not fly. Your heart is like a small lonely city. It is just like the bluestone street facing the evening. The tillers are silent, and the spring curtain of March is not lifted. Your heart is like a small window tightly closed. Our clattering horseshoes are beautiful mistakes. We are not returning home.