Flowers Talk at Nightfall

I no longer remember where I came from.

The wind of afterglow has long been singing in my ear;

The petals of the golden fabric waited for a whole day;

The faint redolence dissipated in the waft.

I began to whisper to the ears of the cooling air the faint songs of

my past,

Like a cradle, slowly pouring out a baby's undeciphered dreams.

I realized I always fall into the same story.

I'm at the bottom of the dense jungle,

Inspecting the dusk, pondering the dusk, and telling the dusk.

The land cannot defect. I know it already.

Passionate travelers, please do not pick up a flower.

You don't want to owe the last shaft of light when the sun goes

down,

Neither do you want her leaving the story unfinished.