Gas rushed three thousand miles, and the potential penetrated the Milky Way.
Fishing in Hezeng Bixi, dreaming of the sun by boat several times.
Poor temples are full of hair, and the chilly spring breeze sweeps away the old year.
When the old star comes back
I bid you farewell.
I can't be like a poet.
Gently don't take away a cloud.
I'm going to put you at 3 a.m.
Put it in my backpack and carve it in my mind.
Three in the morning is really not too late.
Because there is a moon, a shadow and footsteps.
Although very shallow, very shallow.
Three in the morning is really not too late.
Because the traffic lights at that intersection
Still flashing, flashing again.
Three in the morning is really not too late.
Because that overtime dog named Xiao Bai
Still squatting in front of the building, breathing and breathing.
Three in the morning is really not too late.
Because even in the endless darkness, there is still a lamp.
Although there is only one lamp, it is only one lamp.
Whenever I don't sleep at three in the morning, I think of it.
In this century, I have been living in a low old house.
There was a dog barking in the drizzle, which broke the cold dawn.
In this century, I once met a buttonwood tree in my arms.
Watch the upward life in the noisy street.
In this century, I stopped on the cold stone steps.
Listen to the echoes of the long years in the depths of the starry sky
The last time I saw you was at 3 am.
One rainy day not long ago.
Violent lightning tore through the sky.
Before the roaring thunder stops.
Pure white rain and fog obscured my view.
Then where am I from?
At the moment, where am I going?