Rushing on the cold road
Hurry on the lonely road
Snow falls on the head That's a different kind of tomb
When the wind blows across my face, it's really hard

We're alive, but we're dead
The soul has been buried
The body is still in a hurry

We are singing and dancing in chains
Jumping into another wave in the snow
Screaming in the wind It's the wail of music
Poetic desert diatoms

End

The inexplicable depression in the heart of the original freehand brushwork,
Only the lonely pen was left,
Freehand brushwork in the blank without trace,
Depicts a torn self.