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Each of the four seasons, flashed like a subway, end point, is poetry and the distance of the field; Each of the four seasons, like fairy, delicate appearance, chasing the golden speed happiness, never stop; Each of the four seasons, is before the dawn of dawn, let the endless night, stagnation in the light years away. In that no lucid dreams, I am in the flowers blooming in the spring, waiting, waiting, in the blurred melt loss of time, and all living beings, I stood in the vast dust, all the stories and memories of the sea, I into this world surrounded by love. In the fire of the summer, we are in the playground Mercedes, will all the joy and sorrow, all into the sweat drop down the river, is aspersing belongs to own youth, waiting, waiting, in if if no melancholy, tightening answers to crinkling is every bit as water waves. In the golden autumn, camphor tree leaves, such as carpet, clothed with a robe, I started looking for my heart, searching, searching, your eyes are clear, and sings a beautiful song, sing a song only belongs to own joys and sorrows. It doesn't snow in the winter, in the city, the wind blowing over my cheeks, I accompany with the wind, walk on the endless road. Cycle of rebirth. | 
