Your home in a small village in the far north, with the red sunsets of the summer twilight on the Songhua River, has the same shiny red winter ice stretching for thousands of miles. You think life will be as bright as flowers, like stars, like flashes, but reality is worlds away from your imagination. Your life is so short, like the night-blooming cereus, fleeting like a meteor. I think the world would really be happy if you leave. I miss you to the heart through the ups and downs of life's care, but there are too many responsibilities and obligations to you. In the moment before leaving, my heart won't pull together, not flat tears. One year for you and your soul will exist in a place where you go without aging. Although there are no changes in life, it falls toward the sun rose like a curtain. But I know that when the flowers have your love nourished me, my fear is that I think of parting never seeing a day when we will be adjourned to the edge of life unfulfilled.
Postscript: Dad was twelve years old when he sacrificed his life due to an accident, and he was buried by the Songhua River. One year spent is similar each year, yet different. People walking around seem the same, but in fact, people are really cruel. You had a full house of children, white-haired father and mother, yet still failed to keep getting to life. I like you, thinking of you makes my heart hurt, thinking of a good fuzzy memory, all of you in heaven far away these days? Acacia knows what day we'll meet again, here and embarrassed.
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