When the lotus leaves are spring, spring hates them. When the lotus leaves wither, spring hates them.
I know that my heart is always there, and I look forward to the sound of the river at the head of the river.
One glance at the hall is startling, and the shadows of flowers on the temples are deep in gauze.
He frowns, smiles, and obsesses, just like painting, poetry, and updating.
I looked back lazily at the flowers, leaving traces of the warmth of the spring night.
I hope you will spare no efforts to spare your efforts, and your body will fall back into despair.
My eyes are closed and my silk clothes are wet and slanting, but it is difficult to be reborn in Nanke's dream.
Forgive me for being arrogant, but I just think that reciting poetry is easier than writing the introduction to a novel.