The fireworks are in the sky. How many past events have stopped and dispersed with the smoke and the wind? Which tomb-sweeping season, and which broken-hearted whistle, which does not attract lovesickness and haggard? At this moment, I want to burn a burst of fireworks to pay tribute to my three years as a song.

Today, we can still sing and dance and talk at night, but are we willing to stay tomorrow with the fleeting fireworks and whispers at night? Will the hearts of laughter and exchange with each other freeze forever? I’m afraid only the willows outside the short Pavilion know. Liu, we are willing to leave this immature youth in your dancing green silk, but do you mind that after a hundred years, we stumbled to the lake and picked a fairly clean stone stairs, sit down slowly and talk about our water-like years together. Oh, maybe it’s old, so I can’t remember which willow branch is carrying that period of time, maybe it’s just that everything is similar. Like (prose editor: Jiangnan wind) the 30th year of my WeChat era

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