A poem about forgetting
Three Plum Blossom Lanes
Prelude
The sound of Xiao came
The sound of the whistle is like water flowing
The sound of the whistle still exists in ancient times
Blood hits the ground
On this night
Blood hits the ground Splashing everywhere
Blood-red plum blossoms everywhere
I know I am still alive
I am not as cowardly as people think
No matter how difficult the movements were, I performed them extremely smoothly
I am the only moving instrument in the world
Bamboo.