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季节的风，总会吹起梦里的花落。有一个曾经，无数次在回忆的长廊里，细数着美好与忧伤，当幸福还没有来及打包时，而早已经失去。可何时；我们又喜欢怀旧，缅怀那段过往，回首往昔。对着似水流年走过的日子，情不自禁的留下一长串叹息。

The wind of the season will always blow the flowers in the dream. There was one time, countless times in the memory of the corridor, counting the good and sad, when happiness has not come and package, and has already lost. But when; we like nostalgia, remember the past, look back on the past. Facing the passing days, I can't help leaving a long string of sighs.

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心似海，不敌诗的咏叹，谁会读懂我。那一种等待的心情，那一种未知的情愫。叠嶂山峦弹指流年，从此，纷纷扰扰，墨意幽怜，与我纠缠不休的梦魇，模糊在记忆中不愿的停留。

The heart is like the sea, not equal to the poem's chant, who will understand me. That kind of waiting mood, that kind of unknown emotion. From then on, all kinds of troubles, ink meaning, and my endless nightmare, blurred in the memory of unwilling to stay.

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独自走上高山，披一件单薄的风衣，站在我们踩出的崎崎岖岖的梦境里，细数着雨滴打落的花瓣，一朵一朵，朵朵败残。我说：禅是一花一世；你说：佛是一朵一生。生生世世变成花，花在山上，山在花间。没有花山会荒凉，没有山花会荒芜。你是花，我有幸成了山。可如今，山依然耸立，花却已败残，我再也吻不到你露凝风染的幽香，思绪是一山的树：繁荣了——为什么还凋零。

Walking up the mountain alone, wearing a thin windbreaker, standing in the rugged dream we stepped on, counting the petals of the rain drops, one by one, one by one. I say: Zen is a flower for life; you say: Buddha is a flower for life. From generation to generation, it turns into a flower. The flower is on the mountain, and the mountain is among the flowers. No flower mountain will be desolate, no flower mountain will be desolate. You are a flower, I am lucky to be a mountain. But now, the mountain is still standing, but the flowers have withered. I can no longer kiss you the fragrance of dew and wind. My mind is the tree of a mountain: prosperous - why is it still withering.

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遥望孤独的风景，延绵的尽头，是看不清的混沌，你我都不能预知未来，歇斯底里的放纵，是我这个愚人抒发情绪的方式，夜里，淡漠的星空，成为了唯一的诉讼者，也许那一颗颗繁星演奏出的肖邦，才能够理解一种悲凉的韵味吧。

Looking at the lonely scenery, the end of the stretch, is not clear chaos, you and I can not predict the future, hysterical indulgence, is my way to express emotions of this fool, at night, the indifferent starry sky, has become the only litigant, maybe the stars played by Chopin, can understand a kind of sad charm.

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