A prosperous life is nothing more than a song of romantic sadness. Play it lightly, the music is rustling, and how many lonely souls slip through your fingers. The breeze is bright and the moon is shining, the flowing water is springy, and the shore of willows is still there among the flowers in the dream. Smiling and chanting, the clothes are green, and the stories on the road over the years have made the peach blossoms colder. Drop by drop, like wisps of dark fragrance, piercing through all the dusty connections of old dreams. When the butterfly is shattered into flowers, who, with so many whispers, is waiting for a lifetime of expectations?
Intention: Passionate