Who is the passer-by in someone's life, who is the rotation of life.
The dust of the past life, the wind of this life, the endless sad soul.
The layers cut off by time are folded into eternity by the earth's crust.
The boots that the poet left behind in the mountains were soaked with dew at dusk.
The years that have come and gone reveal chapters that have not been rubbed.
The reluctance to leave is repeated in the morning light, and the future is full of light and shadow.
The body lying down has flowers blooming in all seasons, the body is hairy and skin, and melts into mountains and rivers.
The road you walked before looking more is now full of sad lakes,
The plateau you climbed many years ago is now sleeping deep in the earth's crust.
The stories of those years were all folded into a certain chapter on the page of the book.
The fleeting year is still here, summer is over.
People who plant flowers become people who look at flowers, and people who look at flowers become people who bury flowers.
And that piece of wasteland has turned into an oasis, which makes me extremely happy.
Only your sadness or happiness can make the air amplify the sound of rain hitting the piano keys.
Those quiet secret jungles have been covered with layers of fallen leaves for thousands of years.
Pearls shining under fallen leaves.
It's the eyes you lost sight of many years ago.