Pound the musk deer into dust and the fragrance will never be extinguished; twist the lotus into a piece of silk and it will be difficult to cut it off.
The red tearful Wen Ji Luo Shui Chun, the white head Su Wu Tianshan snow.
Don't you see, I have no worries. The high-altitude flowers are blooming, and the dew is cold after the Zhangpu banquet.
Once the ministers and officials are in prison together, if they want to play the Qiang pipe, they must first control the Lan.
The frost on the temples of the old minister is early, but it is a pity that he is old and drunk with ambition.
The eternal dream of spring never returns, and Yecheng is covered with wind and rain.
If I say that this poem actually has little to do with the novel, will you... Hit me?
In fact, you can choose many things by yourself, as long as you are willing to pay the corresponding price. As the literary demon Li Bihua said: Everything is measured.