People often say that when there is no limit at every step in the world, why can't we endure this love-sickness frost melted into words? Flowers bloom and write poems, but I am not good at these words. Who sent me to the cold winter and spring warmth? Once I am born, it is useless. Life and death fly across the snow to chase the sun. The silk pain stops suddenly. Love is the joyful thorn on the fingertip. I miss a few words in my heart. The shallow lover knows no end. This fluttering of fire and feathers will become an obsession. If I just snap my fingers here, I am afraid that I will waste my life without bathing in fire and not write a poem.