Buried love

When spring comes I smiled to myself buried buried deep in the patch of woods edge closer to the afterlife so I grassland no tombstone epitaph not just a handful of loess cover live my life in bitterness and sorrow perhaps – a few years later prescribe exquisite small flowers again a silence that no one kindly love summer comes might prescribe delicate roses that are blooming brilliant escape only to get lost trace of butterflies good fragrance believe it is actually a very alive the pain comes beautiful autumn leaves will accompany sounds to me to tell me to tell you that day came to leave a white flower, they say: it is a rose but you do not know – would never go back as we love those who have not completed