The years are scattered into poems, as lonely as fireworks, brilliant for a moment, and finally slowly die alone under the night sky. When I remember death, I am already desolate...

Who is the passer-by in life, who is the reincarnation of life, the dust of the past life, the wind of this life, and the endless sad souls.

Desolate, desolate, passing through the desolate season, like a dream, slowly carving time...

Hope to adopt it