"Recalling the gentleness in your eyes of the past,
Recalling their once profound shadows;
…"
A female student's eyes reddened, unwilling to listen any further.
The strained, laborious voice continued:
"How many people loved your moments of youthful joy,
Admired your beauty,
Whether pretend or sincere
…"
"Stop reciting!" Luo Huahua waved at him from below the stage, tears streaming down her cheeks.
She snatched a whiteboard, quickly wrote something on it with a marker, and held it up—
You can forfeit! You can do it!
Qiao Nancheng seemed to see it, and seemed not to, stumbling, as if defending something:
"Only one person loves the pilgrim soul in you,
Loves the aging pain etched in your wrinkles;
…
Above your head on the mountain it paces slowly,
Hides its face among a crowd of stars
…"
"..."
