Neem flowers bloom, if life can come back: the rain in March is always sad and moving. In such a season, who is watching alone in a foreign land? Who hid his face in front of the window sill of the attic? Who is in the misty rain hazy picture? I think it's all entrusted to the light rain in March. It's the angel of the soul. No matter where you are, how melancholy you miss, how vicissitudes of true love and how heartbroken you leave, it can pass through your face, hit your heart and tell you about your sadness, love and hate. Time is quiet and good. The warm sun in April is always nostalgic. This is a season when neem flowers bloom. By the river and in the mountains, there are clusters of small flowers inlaid between green and blue, with a faint purple in the white, filled with fragrance. I have been looking forward to meeting an amorous woman under the Azadirachtin tree full of flowers, talking about each other's loneliness and coldness, Gazing affectionately in the purple flower rain, and keeping my white head together. But there was no amorous woman in front of me. Only the purple sadness all over the ground fell with the wind and whirled with the shadow of the trees.

Neem flowers bloom, if life can come back: the rain in March is always sad and moving. In such a season, who is watching alone in a foreign land? Who hid his face in front of the window sill of the attic? Who is in the misty rain hazy picture? I think it's all entrusted to the light rain in March. It's the angel of the soul. No matter where you are, how melancholy you miss, how vicissitudes of true love and how heartbroken you leave, it can pass through your face, hit your heart and tell you about your sadness, love and hate. Time is quiet and good. The warm sun in April is always nostalgic. This is a season when neem flowers bloom. By the river and in the mountains, there are clusters of small flowers inlaid between green and blue, with a faint purple in the white, filled with fragrance. I have been looking forward to meeting an amorous woman under the Azadirachtin tree full of flowers, talking about each other's loneliness and coldness, Gazing affectionately in the purple flower rain, and keeping my white head together. But there was no amorous woman in front of me. Only the purple sadness all over the ground fell with the wind and whirled with the shadow of the trees.