This is an era of swords.
Everyone is a sword. The three thousand blue crows are like Shen Zhengqing, the white clothes beat the snow like Wang Xueqing, the black clothes are splashed with ink like Helian, the summer flowers are gorgeous like Yin Ruo, the autumn frost is lonely like Sikong Ya, the lofty aspirations of the clouds are like Wei Ziyan, and the hands turning over the rain are like Chu Yunmu.
Carrying their own will and the hopes of others, the swords cut a small piece of light in the boundless darkness.
Just like stars, even if they don't fill the night sky, they can still illuminate the earth.
This is an era when lovers cannot love each other properly.
We can't love each other well, but we can sleep in each other's arms.
The sword was soaked in blood. It was tired and could no longer dance. It lay peacefully in the scabbard that only belonged to it.
They hugged each other lightly, and fell asleep in each other's arms in the poet's chant.
[To borrow a sentence from cartoonist Han Lu: "(Here,) we don't talk about history, we don't talk about politics, we just talk about human nature."