One memory after another, picking up a wisp of flowers and dying,
There is always a touch of pain, facing each other across the fence of years, smiling and confused. Perhaps, I have passed the age of tearful eyes begging for flowers, hanging on my lips and lingering at my fingertips. It is no longer the old times, and the seas run dry and the rocks crumble. In my eyes, I stand at the crossroads of time.
One memory after another, picking up a wisp of flowers and dying,
There is always a touch of pain, facing each other across the fence of years, smiling and confused. Perhaps, I have passed the age of begging for flowers with tears in my eyes. What hangs on my lips and lingers at my fingertips is no longer the old seas and rocks, but the broadness and peace in my eyes.