In the autumn of 2070 of the First Era, war buried the West Pole underground, and a golden era came to an end.
It was an endless wilderness, with mountains, rivers, wheat fields, clear streams, flying birds, and running boys.
The 80,000-mile river nourishes the fertile soil, stars pour down from the sky, and the sound of copper bells flutters and breaks, telling the story of a green time when the grass grows and the orioles fly. In front of me was the smoke from cooking pots and the lights of thousands of houses.
It turns out that some people really can rely on a short memory to survive the rest of their lives, until the sea changes and everything changes.
On the plateau, on the top of the mountains and rivers, there are valleys and cang rocks, wheat waves and flowing clouds.
Someone once said to me,
The saddest thing is not that the old friend is no longer there, but that the old friend is still there but no longer there.
They went their separate ways and scattered around the world. As the world passes by, everything seems to have never existed.
Only one person was left, dejected and sad in countless starry and moonlit nights, asking questions over and over again in the dreamlike void:
Did those past events really happen?
In another hundred years, we will wait for the barren hills to be covered with green grass, wait for the maple trees to become redder than the sunset, wait for spring to pass and winter to come, wait for white snow, wait for cicadas to chirp. Waiting for the moon a thousand years ago,
and thousands of years ago
old friends.
Intention: Is there anything more difficult to reconcile than an old friend?