The boat floats slowly in the shade of weeping willows, and the cool breeze in early autumn blows the velvet on the water and the pastoral sound on both sides. I was resting alone in front of the ship's window, watching the waves of a river and listening to distant voices. I had a tacit understanding with my childhood.
This is a crisp call of children. All kinds of work in the field, dogs crowing by the bamboo fence. But this kind of gratuitous sadness and sadness, white clouds flying in the blue sky, I want to entrust my annoying age and annoying love to boundless emptiness, and restore my pure and beautiful childlike innocence, like a spoonful of cold spring in the valley, like a bald milk magpie in the breeze, like a grass flower in Chi Pan.