The floating clouds protect the moon, but it is not filled with red leaves.
The rat shakes the dark wall, the firefly breaks the window and steals the books.
The autumn mood is strong, standing idle in the shadow of Tingke.
The sleeves of good wind are prophets.
What a night.
The road to the south of the Yangtze River winds around mountains, and I know that I am in the early stages.
Nai Xiang shed tears in front of the lamp, her heart was broken, and Xiao Niang wrote poems from the old days.
Still on paper.
The wild geese believe nothing, and the dreams at night are rare.