[On a misty May day in the south of the Yangtze River, the distant mountains are splashed with ink like blue. On both sides of the Qinhuai River, there are willows in the pond, curling up and drawing boats. The waves are like sleet, the beauty is drunk, and the swaying shadow leans against the railing. There are leaves in the depths of the lotus flowers, and lotus flowers are born on the leaves.