Childhood is a ray of sunshine in memory, writing longings on the mottled wall, as pure as water, as beautiful as poetry. Childhood is a melancholy poem, sincere but not bright, beautiful but not wonderful, sometimes even shy to see others, but it makes everyone forget to leave. Only secret love, I persisted year after year.
Intention: Some people regard dead leaves as beautiful seals, while others regard new branches as turbid seedlings.