Song of the Wind

The torment of betrayal is like a Wi-Fi, a connection of ceaseless wounds

 

It is buried in the rich scent of whiskey

 

Like tulips playing in the spring breeze

 

They speak in a language of silence, like sign language

 

Herbs in cardigans live a life carved within pots

 

Under the bright sunlight, they seek refinement

 

Hoping for an opportunity to be highlighted

 

But rumors control their hopes

 

In the triangular world, advertisements compete with their own scents

 

Beauties who chase fame and embark on a journey to a new continent

 

But what they fail to realize is

 

That harmony is of more value than popularity