I am not your rose, nor your painting, I am a skeleton of flesh and blood with a warm skin.
Under the moonlight, I watched the clear mist dance. The leaves of the sycamore trees were all holding up hearts. These hearts followed the autumn wind and blew the hollow flutes.
I sought love in vain, and fell from the sky, with my feet stepping on lotus flowers. I was not flying, and I could not dance passionately. I was barefoot and watched my clothes fall to the end of the world.
In this world, people cannot overlap. Love is not everything to a woman, but love is a woman's life. Even so, I will not succumb to lust.
I watched him go away, his back superimposed on hers,
I am alone, drifting on the top of the ice and snow, the bone-deep chill is penetrating my skin and bones. Love is a pot of fire, but there is already her beside this lover. Even if he and she are no longer in love, I will not step in other people's fence.
When the golden roses bloom, I have entered my twilight years. I am the wine in the deep alley, without the colorful skin.
But so what?
I dance alone, stepping on iron shoes. When the snowflakes fall, the sky becomes mysterious.
Even though I am old, I still long for love, but this love gives me hope.
My darling! The love of my life, I just want you to get your rose! She is a golden rose, kind and innocent, with countless blessings.
My darling! I am already a gray rose, and my lovesickness and fragrance fill the rose flower hole.
Do you know the weirdness of love? If I cling to a cup of tea, will I know your gray-haired acquaintance?