"Many years" is like the prologue in "One Hundred Years of Solitude": "Many years later …", which is a sigh that time flies and all kinds of things are gone. It's like time forgets its memory and moves on alone.
"You have been living in seclusion in my wound", like this sentence, should be the soul of the whole poem.
You once gave me a wound, but after years of healing, you still live in it. In particular, the word "secluded" in "secluded" is cold and icy, but there is a faint sadness. Like the most secret light in my heart, carefully protected, but afraid to touch it. Even if you think about it, it involves all kinds of injuries.
This poem is very obscure. Miss a person, but use the wound to store memories. It's just that all kinds of things have passed, and now only embers support memory asceticism.
This is a grand and silent sacrifice, using the past as a martyr for the rest of my life.
I don't know if my true feelings can be adopted.