Pseudo Republic of China, Pseudo teachers and students, Pseudo immortals, Pseudo academics
Dust fills the south window and the sun warms. People are relaxing in the old house of Qin Guan.
Playing the strings gently reminds me of the old piano, slowly moistening the new paint reminds me of the old tung trees.
Picking up all the sad pieces and feathers, secretly exchanging songs and wine for floating sounds.
Hongniyan snow is scattered, and the pillow is covered with mist and clouds locking the blue city.