The heart is a tree, the roots of love and hope are rooted in the soil, and the branches and leaves of wisdom and emotion bloom under the blue sky. Whether it is the wind and rain of the years or the rolling dust covering the green leaves, it always stands there waiting silently, accepting everything, being neither arrogant nor impatient, neither humble nor supercilious.

The heart is a tree, and the story is carried by the annual rings; Once I come back, I will meet the birds; Repeated collisions make it dense and flexible; Scenes of experience have created its broad mind. The heart is a tree, and a tree cannot be a forest. So trees are independent and connected, and their hearts are different and blind.

Life is a leaf of white paper, and each of us is a painter, holding all kinds of pens in his hand. Life is also a long road, with no end in sight, and each of us is a hiker on the road of life; Life is still like a magical land, and each of us is a cultivator with farm tools; But life is more like a difficult book, and each of us is a tireless reader.