The years turn into ashes little by little at the fingertips,
One year, two years... Ten years... A hundred years...,
From the first time you and I met,
Until now this unknown fire,
The broken heart will slowly reopen,
The same broken memories of those years...
As gentle and lingering as the wind
But I can never capture that moment,
Your last indifferent smile,
It has become my eternal heartache,
If there were no more clear and shrill cries of the phoenix,
Maybe,
We can continue,
The poem under the sycamore tree...
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