Walking through the mountains of time,
Wading through the river of time,
The old suitcase is silent in the corner.
Facing the mottled light shadow,
Looking at the passerby in a hurry,
Listening to the melancholy old songs coming from a distance.
hoarse timbre,
like a thirst for smoking too much,
wiping the suitcase raises a few dust.
It's time to start again.
Are your legs and feet still flexible, old buddy?
Those eventful years,
from south to north, from east to west,
kept drifting by.
The tie rod is covered with rust,
The box wheels are still a little lame,
Maybe after this experience,
it has completely become fireworks in the night.
The old suitcase crunched and
hummed an old melancholy song.