In my past life, I was the rain in Jiangnan. Perhaps, in my past life I was the rain in Jiangnan, so there would be such deep attachment embedded in my body. Regardless of spring, summer, autumn or winter, I will always drift with that tinge of sorrow, soaking the streets and alleys covered with green moss. I am greedy for this ultimate beauty, forgetting the melancholy of the drizzling rain, making the poems of the Tang Dynasty thinner, and making the lyrics of the Song Dynasty cry. In the misty rain, I imitate a poem with its rhythm, rhyming my dampened mood in solitude. Could it be that in the dreams of Jiangnan, there lies my unchanging thoughts for a thousand years? Carrying a stroke of remoteness, sighing at the floating life of the world? In the coming and going of the mortal world, through the cycles of life and death, could I be that endless thread of rain, drifting in the air? Falling into the dust? I dissolve into the butterfly's body, and thus sing the ancient dream of the tower; I fall into Shen Garden, and thus have the lingering resentment of the hairpin phoenix. Would those sorrowful memories of the past also slumber in the depths of history? Ethereal thoughts open the lonely door of my heart, drift into the long dreams of the small city households, thus intoxicating the faces of the people of Jiangnan, intoxicating the hearts of the people of Jiangnan. Memories are like smoke, in the dream where knowledge is as clear as a mirror, who holds whose hand to walk through the crossroads of time? Who strums whose string to last for ten thousand generations? The splendid illusions swirling in my heart, passing through the winds of past lives, shedding the outer layer of vanity, arriving at the gate of Jiangnan with sincerity. I think, I've fallen in love with the beauty of Jiangnan, which is why I am so devoted to my sentiments, writing my passionate poems in the faint old dreams...