"One mountain, two mountains, the mountains are far away, the sky is high, the smoke is cold, the water is cold, I miss the maple leaves and red flowers. The flowers are blooming, the flowers are dying, the wild geese are flying high, and the people have not returned, a curtain of wind and moonlight is idle." He began to recite this poem again...
Decades later, it feels like the next life.
An old man sat on a rattan rocking chair and chattered their story. It belonged to youth and their era...
Qingqingzi chants, lingering in my heart.
The past is like smoke, which will be dispersed by the wind. The original romance and vows have long since disappeared, leaving only the profound memory.
"Yes, we are all old!"
This huge strange circle traps myself and others.