Red Leaves Like Wounds

This article is based on Mr. EDIQ's "Poetry in the Knife Cluster". At that time, no one saw that it was BL. So I decided to change it, at least to let everyone know that it was BL= =||| The lyrics are directly posted in the introduction. If you are interested, you can search and listen. (Bai: I remember Ye Hong's face was sickly red, and I remember the stunning flower on the treetop - unfortunately it was already winter.) The years are frightening, who has missed the time of hunting foxes in the snow in the almanac, admiring the snowflakes, and listening to the sound of strings. On the lonely long street, the first spring flower reflected on my face like a gun. My hair was covered with frost, and my shoulders were wounded. Standing on the twelve colorful glazed flying dragons on the top of the sword pavilion, I thought, the officialdom is still sad that I am not in the world. The snow has not fallen tonight, and the night is still young. Holding a knife called Tianya, where can I go wandering. The maple leaves are shining, and the plum blossoms are falling. The great cold has not yet come, and the flute is rhyming and the swords are shining. Occasionally, close friends will relieve their melancholy with a glass of wine. There is a poem on the edge of the knife, and the poem is like a Taoist priest. A red leaf appears, floating like a wound. Crossing the east street, hoof prints on the ground, immortality is like a dream, hurt until hurt. Upstairs in Ruyi, the stars shine brightly. On the fifth day of May, Shicong Dao hides. The trapped dragon has not been released. Although there is no wind, the flowers have moved slightly, but they are still in full bloom. Where is the beauty? The flags of the old store are shining. I open another jar of old daughter's red wine to get drunk with the belated wind and frost of this season. The lingering songs of the rivers and lakes and the underworld are sung. The only smile in all the merits and demerits throughout the ages, I will never grow old madly, the fireflies light up the lamps and the falling flowers float, there are poems on the swords to break the green night (Bai: It snowed heavily in the twelfth lunar month. At this time last year, he was still here making wine, enjoying the snow, and reciting poems: Where are the children of China now? There is no one in the world who is not heroic; the red leaves dance for poems, and I dare to look for the autumn wind among the knives.) Intention: