The box hides old stories
The wind blows and messes up the memories
The spring of the 1980s
The flowers are scattered in the rain
There are small ripples
Those regrets
I can’t go back after all
In the old pavilion Bamboo
Covered with a wisp of fragrance of dust
One meter of sunlight on the ancient ink painting
Sprinkling slightly on the flower
< p> The old pavilion has long lost its appearanceOnly
the painting is fluttering in the wind