The beauty lies in the summer tower, the silk road is full of flowers, and the pure soul returns life to its original state.

From the fragrance of a blade of grass,

My tentacles began to test the wind and rain,

These tangible and intangible fields

Who can tell it, past lives?

Some voices are like this, spreading space in silence.

Like thin and dense roots that gather day after day,

Throat, Millennium bell,

It is the heaviness and sureness of fate.

Every bird song or insect song is the language of Xiata.

Sadness. It's an honor. Disappointed expectations. Confused. Uneasy.

Boiling blood is a mountain stream that travels in the wind all the time.

Moon-like soul, even if silent,

You can still hear the heartbeat of the earth.

The Silk Road is very long, and these sounds, across history,

The cry of the caravan is like a rope, and so is blood.

The sky is full of clouds and tides, mountains, pine trees,

Snow lotus on the cliff,

Green water, green hills, wild flowers, birdsong,

They are full of memories and warmth.

The beginning and end of the dream have a faint fragrance.

In the summer tower, these sounds are the beginning of life.

Clean and transparent.

In fact, life should be like this.