The ink stains are winding and encroaching on the plain surface, and the scrolls are dense and unprovoked.
The green worm holds the paper in its hand and goes to the underworld, where the lost souls are frequently lost. When will the remaining soul be sent?
The cracks in the scorched earth are filled with dead fire, and the black water is silent.
The deep tombs in the forest of steles touch the cold walls, thousands of tombs hide rusty locks, and a glimpse of the underworld is revealed.
The post office's dangerous lamp hangs over old debts, and the old symbols and new seals are intertwined.
It is difficult to mend the leaks when the skin is empty. Going west weeps at the iron tomb, and the wind and rain erode the remaining shoulders.
The ghosts cry, the rust condenses and seals the mine eyes, and the blood and sinews tangle in the bones, who will cut them out?
The dumb iron weighs down the soul and suppresses the soul's sleep. The ashes of the furnace pour out delusions, and copper coins can be seen in the ashes.
