The guitar is talking in a soothing and low voice, and its sweet texture is like the river bank where thousands of sails have passed. The voice was full of color, low and long, like a woman speaking hoarsely and slowly. The sound was full of desolate walking, heavy and pious. I was gently carried to the shore by the wind, and was drowned by the loneliness of the night, outside the fishing fire and moonlight. That voice passed through the past years, driving the small sail helplessly, with long-lasting love and long-lasting love.