That summer, the sun was just right, the wind was blowing through the trees, and the scenery was just right.
I use the breeze as a pen, the bright moon as an inkstone, the morning dew as ink, the mountains and rivers as paintings, and the world as paper. The breeze rolls in the flowers and blows through the young phoenix trees. The galaxy is hot, you are the ideal in the world.
Unfortunately... The wind was very strong that year and many people were blown away.
Intention: Just be yourself, why bother about other people's opinions.
