It is desolate in the middle of the night, there is no place to talk about the desolation, the high bed cannot keep the warm pillow, the king's heart is like morning dew, who can care about it. In the thatched cottage, in every room, there were only the cries of cicadas, without a word or smile. Holding the red candle in hand, gently pushing the window lattice, looking at the moon and sighing, who is combing the red makeup for. I don't know where my beloved is.
Fifteen years ago, he gave her a home.
Fifteen years later, she fulfilled his wish and got married happily.
What we get in exchange is not sincere treatment, but endless waiting.
The moment waiting for the prodigal son to turn back is the moment of separation between life and death.
Conception: