The mountain grows white on the top
Like our minds have gone blank
Whispering something about the stars

The bright caught in sorrow
Prefer falling in the sky at night
Than in ground
From the third floor
Treasuring our
Times is hard
Feelings thrown in the air
Seeing all the unsaid words
We’re clearly mute singers

Waiting for some reply or movement
Do not worry about the clock
While it spins around again

Summer has passed by
On the grass of your yard
The red trees season began
Leaves reach out the air
Jumping from our shoulders