In everyone's heart lives a child, who may be named Han Fei, or perhaps Chen Ge.
I lie on the train in April, watching the wind outside the window, this world gentle and brilliant.
The swallows return, spring is warm and flowers blossom, my eyes store all things beautiful, yet the body slowly decays.
Buried in the soil, under last winter's fallen leaves, or repeating the everyday repetition.
They call this growing up, they think this is maturity, they say life likes unchanging stability, and stability is the greatest happiness.
They always consider a lot, they live stably and beautifully, they say I am like a misfit freak.
I should grow up, should accept fate, should live like them, instead of being the fish leaping out of water, the sheep not fitting in, the star that can't even light itself.
Someone said life is bitter like a song, I hum the song, carrying a chest full of lone bravery, fiercely forging ahead.
