Deep inside the woods I met
Stood a treehouse that still intact.
And a little gramophone in that room,
where a black records rotate.
Suddenly it rained,
which made me all wet.
The melody of songs drifted toward my heart.
My blue was singing from it.
I don’t know how much tear down the flowers.
Rotating black records continues,
I’m still wandering around some same old places.
By Yating Wang（Sylvia）