The street is long, the fireworks are numerous, you turn on the light to look back, the pavilion is short, the world is grinding, I sigh again.
How many beauties are haggard, longing for their young lovesickness, leaning against the clouds with thousands of pots covering their loneliness, sending you a song, regardless of whether they will be reunited or separated at the end of the song.
Listening to the broken string, breaking the three thousand entanglements, falling flowers and oblivion, obliterating the wind and ripples of the day.
There are trees in the mountains, and the trees have branches. My heart is happy for you, but I don't know it.
After Rong Hua passed, it was just a scene, and the mountains and rivers were silent forever——