Sip a cup of tea in this quiet moment. Thinking about those lost pasts, there is a scene of jade trees facing the wind. There is a faint fragrance of chrysanthemums, and it floats in a faint way.
Looking at the red dust that has been washed white by the years, it is like a wind carving and rain carving into the eyebrows. In the twisted story, thick and light, deep and shallow.
Picking a rich and fragrant chrysanthemum, obsessively entangled into the green hair. Ju Xiang follows the wind, and the chrysanthemum soul pulse follows. Lowering his eyebrows, gently opening his lips, like the wind, he sent the sadness of summer to autumn solstice.
Obsessed with the winter of the plum soul blowing snow that once existed, Su Zhi picked flowers and danced to moisten the ink, and wrote all the red dust sacrifices. In the heartwarming, hot and cool summer, pacing in the red dust years, the little bits and pieces of the pen fell on the plain notes, and the short chapters that could not lock the mood were successively written.
Shadow and shadow accompany each other, and the heart follows. This ancient and modern sorrow, had to temporarily make a jade pot wine, raised a glass to invite a hook of the moon, the breeze and stayed. This scene can not be eliminated, the autumn dew is heavy, and the hundred flowers are damaged by the incense tomb.
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