The poems and songs are solitary, the brocade clothes are even colder, the curtains are numerous and no one is turning them.
Who will bury the flowers tonight? Wherever the water flows, all the beauty will be lost, leaving only the sigh of the wind.
Who can know how much mist and rain has blocked the return journey from the end of the world.
Or, there are countless mountains, and red flowers are flying everywhere, and you don't remember the time and the way you came.
In the carved bronze mirror, the green hair has turned snow-white, and what is reflected is still unbearable expectation.
Spread out a piece of pink paper, with ink and wash running wildly, irresistible rhymes, endless words, and slow voices.
Now, the autumn wind has risen again, covering us with frost, causing chills and wounds.
But the road to Guanshan is far away, and the brocade book is difficult to carry, so what if you can see through the autumn water?
In the end, it is just like a dream, like a mirror and a mirror.
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Ps: A story with a cliché background, a story about a pair of sisters traveling through time.