If life is just like the first time we met, why should the autumn wind draw a fan sadly?
The warmth of a palm, the vicissitudes of life
How much Qingqiu passed by
How many flowers fly in dreams
Eventually the fragrance fades and becomes cold, lingering becomes mourning
Go up to the poor blue and fall down to the underworld
This life is not about chanting Buddha or becoming an immortal, it is just about staying by your side