That year, the rain wet her face.
I can't tell whether it's tears or rain.
She is cold all year round, without any warmth, with a white tired face and slender hands.
Touching the white jade flute with your fingers, a long tune sounded in the air.
Without the lingering resentment that can be like a song, without the high spirit that shocks the heart, one cannot feel the moon closing in one's heart, nor can one feel the loneliness of a tree and the sorrow of a flower.
The sound of her flute is like her person, without any temperature, but it is like pure spring water and gentle wind blowing on the earth.
The beautiful tired face has no expression.
The bright red peach petals stung her eyes.
Tears fell, and it was no longer clear whether they were sad or happy.