The first sight of the moon beside the plum trees is like frost, and the poems and notes on the medicine cup are dimly fragrant.
The names on the gold list are kowtowed three times, and the shadows of red candles are reflected in thousands of lines.
The snow in northern Xinjiang is cold and letters at home are hot, while the spring in southern China is deep and the words of Yan are cool.
Don't ask when the return date is approaching. The rivers and lakes share the same light with the night rain.
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