Sparse leaves sway in the wind, slender branches yearn for rain, and even a narrow stream can be crossed by bridge. A master at painting bamboo, he goes to admire its noble bearing.
On the barren soil of the slope, you once made its charm hard to wither. The □□ pavilion, tender and affectionate, fears the clamor most.
Rolling on. Huang and Ying harbor regrets, weeping until blood stains the scene; their tears fall in torrents. Its firm joints are supple, and its virtue remains within.
Only wish to ascend to the heavens □□, fearing neither dense woods nor lofty mountains. Where the brush-texture is laid, who waves the silk, dabbing color onto the brow?
This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.
