Origin of Lilac

I don't know whether you come from the past or the future. Time is just a gust of wind that blows me away, but I can't see where the wind comes from. Merry-go-round, Slowly driving the wheel axis of time, Every golden thread in front of my eyes, They all touch the light and shadow of youth, Every musical note in my ears, All beating to the beat of romance. Your startling glimpse travels through thousands of years of time, My intoxicated eyes are blurred, and I can't get enough of your romantic charm. The sky is full of colorful clouds, Spreading rain of flowers of seven colors, Under the glow of the rays, colorful butterflies fly together. Where the petals fall, the grass is connected to the branches. The beautiful silhouette, the crazy talent, Always tugging at my heartstrings, It's forgetful. Beautiful scenery on this good evening, cutting candles to the window, gambling on books and splashing tea, Even if it costs a lot of money. Forgive me for being young and ignorant, for not being able to understand your stubbornness. I once thought that what I could see with my eyes was the whole world. A person's life can be measured within the reach of his legs. Every thorn of the rose, They all record my desperate pursuit again and again, It invades the muscles and pierces the bones, and the blood stains the flowers red. Just to see your beauty. The mottled wooden horse still rotates, Engraved with the passing years like water, The swaying youth is helpless, How to eliminate the sadness of parting. The west wind last night, The lamp is alone and the shadow is alone, the quilt is cold and the wine is cold, Listening to the wind on the porch in the middle of the night, cherishing the flowers falling like rain, Look at the sky and the wild geese flying to the west, It's easy to be sad and broken, and it's hard to hold a brocade book. Sitting alone without sleep at three o'clock in the morning, The dream was covered with clear frost, and when I woke up there were still traces of tears. In his years of mist and rain, the apricot blossoms were exchanged for wine. Where are the old people now? After the tenderness, can the remaining situation be exchanged for the happiness of the past?