Looking at the extreme end of the dangerous pavilion, the grass is as bright as the horizon, and I sigh that half of my temples are invaded by ramie. Dark spot inspection, leaving traces of saliva, still dyeing shark's silk, the phoenix returns in confusion, and the broken luan dances carelessly. Waiting to be written diligently, I will always regret in the book, the blue clouds and wild geese sinking across the vast sea, the longing for lovesickness, and the mourning zither pillars. Traveling thousands of miles south of the Yangtze River with sadness, the song of resentment is repeated, is the broken soul still there?
I recently read a poem and came up with the following story!