I remember that year when we met by the river, there was a hibiscus blooming in it. Her eyebrows are gracefully curved and her temples are fluffy, and she is rubbing the willow leaves behind her back.
Before saying anything, his face turned red. Where does all the tenderness come from? Desolate broken stems fluttering. The old dreams on the front edge are gone with the wind, spring
The waves are still green, where will the waves pass away?