It is also a beautiful traffic accident. You knit your brocade over there, and I'll play the flute here. From the last Tanabata to the next Tanabata, Yu Guangzhong's poems have a unique rhythm that other poets don't have, and this language has no other destination. Index finger, I believe in the future. When cobwebs mercilessly sealed my stove, when the smoke of ashes sighed with poverty, I still stubbornly spread the ashes of disappointment and wrote with beautiful snowflakes: Believe in the future. When my purple grapes become dewdrops in late autumn, when my flowers are nestled in other people's feelings, I still stubbornly write down on the desolate land with frosty vines: Believe in the future.