Our class is going to hold a starry spring poetry recital, and I'm going to preside over it. Let's help you string the words together. If I were a writer, the name of this program would be unbearable.

If I were a writer, I would definitely write that white rose into my poems, into the eyes of all the prodigal sons with faint homesickness under the starry sky, so that their tears would touch the indifferent ice god, turn their whispers into songs, and let their thoughts lie on my paper and in the arms of the goddess of poetry.