The wind knocks on the curtain foil, the moon shadow sinks snow, a path of cold and cold, a few degrees of light dyeing clothes, jade leakage freezing, tired pen dust, wordless look back at cen lonely place, people in the diamond mirror, smoke locks in the eyebrows... Burning a pillar of sandalwood, sitting in the early night, a wisp of green silk dreams scattered on the shoulders, the sweet sounds of the past are superimposed in the palm of the hand, kneaded into a cinnabar mole, and silent at the end of the eternal year of the night.
Between the returns, the blossoming flowers of the season have withered. Wanting to sip the water of the Forgotten River, the memory of The Purple Strange Dust is no longer my ferry, telling the bottom of the leading edge, like a song of the Golden Ser through the clouds and three stacks, reels, plucking strings, cracking, feathers falling a trace of sand...
Oh the past, the clouds and waters, the good times like dreams, the cold incense, too hurried. Where to find, and how many pavilions have you walked? Where to ask, how many Haoyue breezes have been sung? Gaze at the other shore, smoke and water, a thin stream of light, that first acquaintance of the Green Valley has ever had the echo of Wei Meng? Was there ever a cloud shadow floating in the eight-hundred-mile water frame?
In the old days, the moonlight, the beautiful words and gentle words, have been like the eternal jade shavings cut on Xue Tao's note, drifting away with the wind, scattered into a rainbow. Waiting for the coming year, what will happen in the coming year, the ethereal sound of the flowing years, the warm jade of the blue field flowing through the hands, floating in the murmuring Wu Yun under the Twenty-four Bridges, gradually dignified in the sigh of the night like water, and the words of Yu Nuo.
The dream was long through the clouds and rain, and the heart was broken into Lishan Mountain. The singing of a rain ringing bell, the drowning of a Tang Dynasty, on the long embankment on the other shore, the Lan Zhuo scattered quietly, the ring of ice shattered, a trace of the imprint of the untied alliance, three hundred innocent poems and inks, and finally could not withstand the vortex of fate in the depths of that reincarnation. In the past life, this life is just a prosperous scene, and in this life, the emperor is in tears.
A leaf of ling ice, the sound of winter is cleaned with dust traces. Falling eyes, flicking hearts, Ruosu, scattered into a void of flowers, suddenly speechless. Only the light fragrance of the shadow, only the refuge of emptiness... Ten thousand years of emptiness, a thousand years of illusion, self-immeasurable devastation. The act of ten feet of soft red, through the mizu of the ferry, quietly pure, twisting words to save the truth, in the seasons of the years to listen to the flowers fall.
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