Girl, I like you. As you can see, I'm gray. I pushed away the moonlight in front of the bed, and still knocked white frost on the ground, but that was not the case on my hair. Girl, where is the light in front of your little window? I see your weak light and the deep nest in front of your window. I like you, like snowflakes on the stove wall; like a torch falling into the water; like the crisp sound of accidentally crushing a camphor fruit in autumn; and like the south wind passing by dead leaves in spring, not daring to breathe.