The dream of blooming flowers drifts in the world, like a dream but not a dream. The prosperity is gone, the world is desolate, and the heart is so cold and desolate. The smoke on the other side overlaps, unable to retain the silk strings of the past. The calmness of silence, the confusion that was once entwined with tears, at this moment, can only bury all the sadness. The misty rain of the mortal world is as woven as water. Step into it and listen to the sound of raindrops passing through the parasol trees in the middle of the night. I have long been accustomed to sleeping alone in silence, reading old letters gradually faded away, time passed by, old friends thousands of miles away...
