He half-hidden the unfinished scroll
His eyes were dimmed
But his mood was intoxicated by the romance of the last century
Turn back Turn off the bedside light
but don’t want to
The moon in the mid-air
penetrate the half-covered window
The brilliance fills the humble room arbitrarily
As if soaked in the remaining frost of thousands of years
Filling the world with sorrow and sorrow
The silhouettes of several pots of orchids< /p>
Faintly imprinted on the gray floor
As if stuck in the scrapbook of memory
That piece of frost grass with a bright smile
Walking through the years
Staying on the other side of that moment
Singing the Scarecrow’s unknown
Loneliness