The breeze brushes the still lake. Where does that music come from?
There in the pavilion, the woman, dressed in white.
The sound of lofty mountains and flowing water rings softly as a bell, while splashes wet her snow-white dress.
Suddenly, a string snaps, and the music stops.
From between her jade-like fingers, brilliant red flowers bloom, one drop at a time, falling onto the table.
She does not wish to bandage the wound. However much it hurts, it cannot compare to the wound in her heart.
The wind blows the hair from her forehead. Ah, in the end, the tears fall.
