Down the memories to the garden of green, sometimes I feel I could be seen.
To all the memories that I could walk together, I cherished,
To all the premises I could voice outer, I perished.
To those thousand words that walked a little distance to me, I buried.
Now that the garden thats been left with the traces of petals, I’ve married.
The greens above the mud vanished, but the roots under are there;
Preserved or decayed?
Even the heart carrying your memories has the stain of green.
Even the veins carrying the river of life has drained to be unseen.
What has been there had been there, have been there, sad not been here.
On to the dreamy way of thousand miles, I find myself painting just green.
Down the memories to the garden of green, sometimes I feel I could be seen.