The moon cave moves the roots of snow to make gauze, and the single tree pavilion waits for the passing of time. The rings of the years seal old oaths, and the shadow of a stream of clouds washes the new buds. Suddenly the green armor broke through the chaos, and I began to believe that there was a spirit in Jianmu. The stars are whispering every night, and the jade-marked sand is quietly blooming on the branches. Sweep your eyebrows to identify the Tianhe pattern, and tie the dark clouds with a knotted ring. Thousands of years of solitude turn into fragrant honey, hundreds of reincarnations turn into wine. The road to the sky is burning with stars, and the scorched earth is still green. The cold moss marks on the three-life stone are green, and the moon is setting on the empty mountain and the children are crowing. The old paintings are covered in ink, and the new cicadas shed their shells and change into neon clothes. Mountain spirits secretly check the human calendar, and only the root of Sophora japonica records the appointment date.
