The shadow of the moon is deserted, the wind and sand are drunk, the wine is spilled on the machete, and the past is spent with a smile; the purple comes from the east, and I want to use it, and the green clothes accompany the thatched cottage, but I see autumn leaves every year and spring every year.
The shadows of the sun are lazy, the lotus embraces the fragrance of koi, the sleeves are folded to add ink, and the summer is intoxicated by the fragrance of agarwood
Is it the beauty of the past, or is it the future that I am waiting for...