Time makes us grow old slowly, and then we are buried in the blooming season under the last banyan tree.
The corner at the edge of the pleated skirt has also become extremely lonely. Where did your last tear fall on the endless wilderness of time?
In that place where there is no winter, how could snow fall and fall, irrigating the last grave with sorrow and death.
I don't want to be sad anymore, let's separate, those lonely ones