Flowers Talk at Nightfall Painting

I no longer remember where I came from. The wind of afterglow has long been singing in my ear; The petals of the golden fabric waited for a whole day; The faint redolence dissipated in the waft. I began to whisper to the ears of the cooling air the faint songs of my past, Like a cradle, slowly pouring out a baby's undeciphered dreams. I realized I always fall into the same story. I'm at the bottom of the dense jungle, Inspecting the dusk, pondering the dusk, and telling the dusk. The land cannot defect. I know it already. Passionate travelers, please do not pick up a flower. You don't want to owe the last shaft of light when the sun goes down, Neither do you want her leaving the story unfinished.