That January, I turned all the tubes, not to cross, but to touch your fingertips;
That year, I kowtowed and climbed on the mountain road, not to see you, but to keep your warmth;
At that time, I turned the landscape into a stupa, not to repair the afterlife, but to meet you on the road.
Crane in the sky, please lend me your wings.
I won't fly far, but I will go back to Litang.
It was just that night.
I forgot everything, abandoned faith, abandoned reincarnation.
Just because the rose that once cried in front of the Buddha has long lost its former glory.