When I smelled the fresh fragrance of Phoenix bamboo after the rain, I almost thought it was my hometown, or I would rather believe it.
After many stories of reincarnation, I came up with the idea of taking pleasure in it.
The mountains here are not high, but they are varied. Every mountain peak is like a miniature bonsai, like a painting with faint ink and wash. The water here slowly reflects the reflection, reminding me of the lush past.
Too bad she can't see it.
When I saw her incomparable beauty, I simply believed that nothing bad would happen in this world. Flowers are bright and won't fade, water is eternal and crystal clear, and the sun, moon and stars are all around, listening to her eternal beautiful singing.
Then one day, her eyesight gradually declined. Without warning, I thought she was sleepy. Long-term vagrancy exhausted her, and she needed a rest.
The bamboo raft went down the river and the water splashed on her ankle. She stopped singing after she lost her sight.
If she is still singing, I would like to follow her anywhere on this continent. But now, she is tired. She just opened her eyes wide in the dark, staring at the distant starry sky that she couldn't see alone with those eyes that fascinated me.
I don't know which night there is no moon. In the shadow of the bamboo forest, she suddenly put her hand into the water and asked.
The water is cold. Like her sad black eyes.
She is a bard, from a distant country, through so many villages and families, singing in a beautiful language that I don't understand.
Until one day I believe that we exist in each other's illusion. Her singing and my strings.