Yunjin, your years are long, your mountains and rivers are intact, and Achen, you are between your eyebrows, the world of mortals is far away, pour a glass of crystal clear cold. Don't think about the glitz of the world, don't write about the chaos of the world. I was young and my clothes were thin. Riding a horse and leaning on the leaning bridge, the building is full of red sleeves. There are flowers in spring, moon in autumn, cool breeze in summer and snow in winter. If there is nothing to worry about, it is a good time in the world. The spring breeze and I are both passers-by, and we share the bright moon to live forever. We knew each other back then but didn't hear back from you, and I sighed that the years were passing by like water. Once one enters the world, time passes quickly, and young people become old in the world. I will be your inkstone, and you will roll up your sleeves and write. What is spread on the paper is my eyebrows and eyes.
Buddha said: Three thousand prosperity, at the snap of a finger, will be nothing more than a handful of yellow sand after a hundred years. The visitors in green shirts and misty rain seem to be old friends. Nine horses draw mountains to predict destiny, and you will be with you all your life without envy of immortals. The years are slightly cooler, and a long misty rain has soaked whose memory, and whose dark and frosty Jiangnan has left behind whose gentle and lingering dreams. Who is willing to accompany you as a pair of bones to bid farewell to this tragic scene. One flower, one tree, one world, one cloud, one day, one moment, one sadness, one joy, one sleep, one frost and one dew fall on the world.
Concept: ancient romance