Along the clear stream of memory, bare feet, stepping on the clear water, the green moss is fragrant, the red bridge is warm, the fish is dancing with its tail in my palm, the butterfly flutters its wings and flies between my eyebrows Pass. The gurgling stream, slapped on the pebbles, softened into a melodious piano sound in the lonely valley, carrying the joys and sorrows of the years, winding to an unknown end. The fresh moss marks, green and soft, smooth and silky texture, just like the te...
