In the winding and beautiful old dream, the smile that has been softened by the years slowly blooms.
The late plum blossoms are waiting for the spring snow, but you are still missing on the winding road on the snow.
In those silent nights, I traced your outline bit by bit.
Those vivid memories flowed out from the pen, and the pain in the fingertips dripped onto the dim rice paper.
The reed spreading quietly in my heart, after so many years, still cannot be uprooted.
Looking back at the river, I still remember that night, the stars were shining brightly, the fireworks were brilliant, and you were wearing clothes flying around you.
After all, it is a fate like water, weak and weak, coldly and cruelly torn apart by the shackles on the body.
It's a pity that I am left alone. Under the green lamp, I record the flying light and the fleeting years.