In the moonlight, people under the lamp are waiting.

The wind in the crowd, the sound of years in the song in the wind.

Who will sigh unconsciously?

Sigh and grow old unconsciously.

Who will listen to a pretty picky beauty?

You came here in the morning and left the fragrance of cherry blossoms.

The window opened, the door opened and someone asked me what to say.

You used to sing moonlight.

Once accompanied me to grieve for fallen leaves.

I used to draw my face in front of the snow window.

Those snowy winters

A boy without an umbrella

An oath blocked by a door

That string of snow-covered goodbye