The lyre is injured, and the colorful clothes are dancing. With a slender finger waving lightly, I recall the dream in my drunken state. Those years are as gorgeous as the fluttering butterflies. Looking back on the way back, the path is full of fragrant steps, real and fake. Who is the shadow going to?
The bright moon is as bright as ever, leaving people empty and thin. What's the point of a dangerous fence? The autumn wind and rain are gentle, and this hurried passage of time is like the blur of Zhuang Sheng's dream, heading for an unknown road, wanting to find traces, willing to go against the body, how can I go there?
Intention: