When night falls, the Milky Way is willing to be captured, and comes to use me as a canvas. With its undulating waves and chirping cicadas, you tell us that everything has a soul, and that I, too, am being comforted by the lightness of the Milky Way. When the moonlight pours into my room as a guest, and I fall asleep under the starry sky, and the moon is high in the sky, and I feel as if the noise of the world has nothing to do with me, as if I am at peace. You said to me, "I am behind you, and you should be like a woman who goes to your countryside".

The Milky Way succumbs to the nightfall and became a canvas for your artistic display. Fickle winds and chorusing cicadas entered your painting; spirits in all things were fashioned by your brushes - gentle as the breeze that soothed me as I grew up. in all things were fashioned by your brushes - gentle as the breeze that soothed me as I grew up. Into the room flew the moonlight, while I escaped into the wonderland under the starry night. Into the room flew the moonlight, while I escaped into the wonderland under the starry night. The crescent moon hung high as it gleamed, playing hard to get by your glimpse. “I have your back,” you said, “fly to your mountain like a bird and never look back. ”I have your back," you said, "fly to your mountain like a bird and never look back."