I walked through the south of the Yangtze River and looked like a lotus in the season. If the east wind doesn't come, the catkins in March can't fly. Your heart is like a lonely little city, like a bluestone street leading to dusk. The sting doesn't ring, the spring curtain in March doesn't open, and your heart is a closed small window. My horseshoe was a beautiful mistake. I'm not a passer-by, just a passer-by.