The cold wind of March 9 is like ten thousand sharp knives, cutting my skin violently. I am like the frozen ice in the river, coldly resisting the pain in my heart in Xiao Sha's world.
The desolation of September is like a piece of paper flying across my forehead. I am like a raindrop falling from my hometown, spreading endless and biting nostalgia in this bustling city.
The heavy snow in November is like a flying bird, nourishing my soul. I am like a soaring eagle, overlooking the earth in the sky.
The meteors in July are like a hot fire, rolling across my heart. I am like the pen in the pocket of the Beipiao people, resolutely writing down the goals of struggle in this fiercely competitive city.
The warmth of March is like a gust of wind, gently blowing past me. A small river flows through my hometown, and a lingering homesickness quietly grows in this noisy and boring world.