You are the Qingcheng time I passed by, and you are the injury drawn by fleeting scenery.

The sun is being twined by thin clouds, emitting a faint dazzling white light. Looking out of the window, the rain as fine as ox hair and as small as a needle tip swayed with the wind, twisting the waist like silk, dancing, circling all the way from the deep sky, finally fitting with the earth, pouring her tenderness, soaking the soil soft, emitting a faint fragrance of the soil