A poem describing desolation. White hair three thousands of feet, sorrow like a beard. The depth of sadness and the hiding of sadness are more told in silence than in voice. But since the water is still flowing, although we cut it with our swords and raise our glasses to drown our sorrows. Wine becomes sorrow, acacia becomes tears. Tears ask flowers silently, and red flies over the swing.
There is sorrow behind the mountain. People are not free without wind. People come and go with their own troubles. Whether it rains or not is all in the past, and there are regrets about how to choose life.