Prosperity escapes into the dream gate, but encounters the cold, only the sound of a flute, stranded, wrinkled, and scratched.
Like water, I only fear that the fireworks will get cold easily, but what lingers in the mid-air are shouts or taunts. I don't want to stay, let alone cause trouble, but the wind is close behind me, splashing the cold current from time to time, and being blown to pieces, but I have to pretend to smile. Perhaps only in this way can I hold up an umbrella in the noise and block the surging undercurrent.
It was supposed to be played during the wolf-fang moon, but it was delayed until the morning bell. Counting the morning rays in detail, what is reflected on the strings is not warm longing, but a solitary walk in the rain and fog, outlined in ink. When I read "Write a Poetry for You", I realized that sand is not a scene that my pen can describe. In the past, I frowned and described the wind and sand, without interpreting it, letting it drift, lost in the turning pages of history, overturned the cabinet of the past life, and wandered into this life again.
After several winds and rains, a pot wanders. Let the running water of Sanqiandong wash away the tears of the past.
The string has been broken, but the person is still there, playing a new song and spreading it all over the seven miles. Spring may have returned there, with the fragrance of flowers and the chirping of birds everywhere.
Farewell, Wind of Shangcheng.
That dryness has gradually faded away as the white horse passed by.
The new words rippled in the morning light, and for seven miles, flowers bloomed in the sound of the flute.
A certain year, a certain month, a certain day, it was another misty start in the rainy alley.