The red seven-leaf maple, carried by the breeze, rises into the purple sky with the sound, tossing and turning, like flowing fire or red butterflies, crossing the tops of the green mountains, drifting across the endless ancient sea, and falling gently from the clouds...
Time is like water, either beautiful or hurtful. It is unrealistic to record the remaining warm memories and forget them, just like cutting off one's own shadow, black shadow under the sun.