When my purple grapes become dewdrops in late autumn, when my flowers are nestled in other people's feelings, I still stubbornly write down on the desolate land with frosty vines: Believe in the future.
I want to wave my fingers to the horizon. I want to hold the sun in my palm and write it with a warm and beautiful pen with a child's pen: Believe in the future.
I firmly believe in the future because I believe in the vision of people in the future. She has eyelashes to push away the dust of history, and she has pupils to see through the chapters of the years, no matter what others think of our rotting flesh.
Are those lost disappointments and failed pains sent by touching tears, deep sympathy or contemptuous smiles and bitter sarcasm? I firmly believe that people will give us a warm, objective and fair evaluation of countless explorations, lost ways, failures and successes of our spine.
Yes, I am anxiously waiting for their evaluation friends. I firmly believe in the future, indomitable efforts, overcoming the death of young people, the future and love life.