The wind blows like this

　　Gently, gently, it is the falling of a flower. Slipping is a touch of sadness. Is it the wind? Why do you want to blow up like this, why do you want to blow up this faint sadness, and why do you want to blow the petals into falling? Do you know how painful the petals should be when they fall gently? Do you know how lonely the petals dancing with the wind are, flying gently and falling quietly? How much loneliness is hidden in the solo dance of a flower, falling without direction, and no one can remember it anymore.

　　The sky is blue. Do you still remember every beautiful cloud that floats by, gently drifting by, and every windy time? How many memories are left at the lonely fingertips? The wind still blows gently and scatters the white clouds one after another. How many people remain in the hands that have no time to hold on, without dialogue, quietly blowing away, and blowing away like this.

　　Miss is always too far away, but the wind is still blowing gently. Who is familiar with the lingering aftertaste, whose cheek is touched lightly, and how far away it is? Who once agreed to dance lightly? Dandelion who woke up gently danced lightly, full of wandering, full of promises. The scattered velvet flowers are light and blurred, and whose thoughts are disturbed like velvet flowers.

　　Deep red is the color of the setting sun, which is blown away by the wind in the evening when it is too late to remember, and the moon is quietly shining brightly. How many memories can be remembered? Whose face is a gentle touch, as if it were your gentle hair tip, and who is the "rustling" in the wind? The wind is still blowing like this. I can't find a familiar person in the wind. We used to blow the same wind, but it was in the wind.