Women are like flowers.
At the age of eighteen or nineteen, she was a young dandelion in the mountains and fields. Although bitter, she stubbornly bloomed with her own beauty.
In her thirties, she is a bright rose, with soft stamens exuding an alluring fragrance, covered with thorns, and occasionally hurting others.
In her forties, she is a peony in full bloom, beautiful and fragrant, noble and in full bloom.