If life is just like the first meeting, what's the matter? The autumn wind is sad and the fan is painted
The spring breeze on the tenth day has been teasing me again, fearing warmth and sadness. The wind and rain came at night, shaking the willows to a deep yellow color. The fumigation camp has not been broken, the dream is old and cold, and I am lightly drunk in the same quilt. Just smell the lamp and see the moon, look at the flowers and be frightened by the wine.
Hand in hand, the body is covered with flower shadows, the fragrant mist is falling, and the lapels are wet with dew. The singers and singers return, looking back heavily. On this night in the world, spring light is lost, and a moment of gold is lost. Ask tomorrow, the bluebird in the red scarf will pick up the hairpin from the green moss.