We passed through Jiangnan. The face waiting in the season bloomed and faded like a lotus. The east wind did not come, and in March the willow catkins did not fly. Your heart is like a small, lonely city, much like the stone-paved streets at dusk. No footsteps sounded, and in March the spring curtains were not lifted. Your heart is a small window, tightly shut. The clatter of our horse’s hooves was a beautiful mistake. We are not returning home.
