Fang Hou was still dead after all. The flags and faint mournful sounds raised in the countryside during the Qingming Festival sang an elegy for him as he returned to his ashes. The continuous rain made the road through the reeds very muddy, and his motorcycle fell straight down a high cliff from the swamp embankment covered with weeds. The spring rain is continuous, the fields are quiet, and the blood is meandering in the young green, like big flowers in full bloom, as beautiful as poppies.
Conception: