For a foot covered with snow, it has been silent for a hundred years. The promenade is like a deep well, ringing with the initial questions. Snow-white hair, fluttering pale face, eyes staring at a dark night sword, a touch of blood wrapped around the sword, Long song flowing with years.

I forgot your face, but I can't forget it anyway. I only remember the scene where the flame burned your mutilated body. The bamboo flowers behind you are like snow, and your white shirt is flying like snow, like snow, like snow. Now, you are as cold as snow, eating away at my body temperature. I was trapped in prison for many years. I walked out for you, but on the day I walked out, I fell into another prison. I'll kill that man in a way that looks like your eyes. Now, these hands have learned the sword for you, but they want to uproot you.

There is a unique beauty in this world, which only exists between the eyes. Two people chase their eyes with their eyes, attract a glimpse of light, hook for a while, turn into an undercurrent, rush into one, see through and be seen through.

A sword, mourning for killing, a person, building a tomb for longevity. Ice fog, a stone pavilion, is full of blanks, and it is rare to write an elegy of crossing the sword with one's life.

This sword will cool life and death, and it will be sad and beautiful after drinking blood. I left it behind, held it tightly in my heart, stayed in a snowy March, and grazed my sword with blood, forgetting today.