More than 1,100 years ago, Bai Juyi moved to Sima of Jiujiang County and lived by Poyang Lake. One autumn night, the poet was awakened by a pipa, and following the sound of the pipa, the poet found himself, and two lines of clear tears fell from Poyang Lake. The sound of the piano and the tears sink to the bottom of the lake, and the noisy strings can still be heard here a thousand years later.
I was also awakened by the sound of the lute, walking on the shore of the lake, the crack of a thousand years ago, as if it were in the ear, as if it were just yesterday.
At that moment, Bai Juyi walked on the singer's string, the pipa sounded in the poet's poem, the person who plucked the string gently twisted slowly, the person on the string was drunk and unhappy, the pipa sound gradually drifted away, sounded in the heart, disappeared in the poem, before the book case, only Jiangzhou Sima was left, tears wet green shirt.
The sound of the lute is not far away, but spring is still coming.
Poetry has a smell, and the poetry of this moment has a wet grass aroma. As soon as the poet came, the clear stream of the mountain began to chant and sing, and the sky was mighty, and it was the wind looking for chapters and excerpts. As soon as the poet reached out, he dragged a handful of new poems, there were too many poems, the poet began to throw them casually, I followed behind, and as soon as I leaned over, it was a classic of eternity.
There are so many poems that poets built homes specifically for them.
Baiju Yi Caotang, which is a paradise of poetry. The poet lies high here, stretching a lazy waist, which is also poetic.
I sat alone in front of the grass hall, waiting for the poet, waiting for Sima Bai's somewhat late spring.
The pipa was still there, and I distinctly heard the plucking of joy, more urgent than the footsteps of the poet, more stretched than the poet's mood, more romantic than the poet's poem.
The poets have returned, and together with them there is poetry, and there is wine, and there are flowers.
A flower, a glass of wine, a poem, can't tell who is more intoxicating and who is more brilliant. It is not clear who will be at the fingertips and who will be passed on for a long time. There are flowers, there is wine, Bai Sima is drunk in front of the horse of poetry, poetry is speechless, poetry is the poet's initial and ultimate home, poetry is the poet's eternal spring.