The west wind is cold, the winter is not central, the bamboo pen is thousands of lines, and the thin shadow is drunk and sad. The vicissitudes of the book, the sadness of the eyes blooming, the depths of the ink marks, I can't sing for the world, but in the melancholy, I don't lose the appearance of purity.
The dusty pen, the wounds, cannot outline the confusion of nothingness. The pen alone on the cold branches, the ink heart but condensed incense, the night wind and moon full of magnolia windows, the plain heart soaked with autumn and winter frost, the red dust dim heart clean, knock out the text refers to the cold.
Humorous feelings, light incense, lying down to the wind and rain, residual ink fragrance. There is no dust on the paper, the ink has a fragrance, the clouds flow, the words are like pearls, read life, spin in it, black and white are more desolate.
Looking back alone, all the way sad songs, half a life of ups and downs, only a little pride, a few vicissitudes. Tasting tea, chewing the afterscent, a piece of loneliness, a look of hurt, so, a long sigh of sadness.
Thinking about yesterday, full of vigor and ambition, looking at this dynasty, full of sorrow, bursting into tears. Looking at the sky, the smoke waves are confused, and a ray of sunshine is hope. Gently stroke the heartstrings, send love ink incense, ink dye green shirts, dye the world's wind and frost.