So Far, Four Years of Light Winter

Four years is neither short nor long. Every winter story is buried by the falling snowflakes until forgotten. I tossed and turned at night, sobbing softly, imagining that everything could be done again. But the fallen leaves cannot return to the trees, the running water cannot return to the stream, and the snow petals that melted in the palm of the hand cannot return to the sky. No one can catch the time that slips away, and the stolen youth can never find the thief, just like no one can find the feeling of love that was so deep at the beginning.