Locked in a high pavilion with a plum blossom latch. There are fine carved windows and brocade quilts and silk tents. When spring goes, thousands of reds are buried in Xiaogang; when autumn comes, thousands of golds scatter their soft light. The four seasons are pure, you can keep a solitary lamp, and you can count the colorful years. If there is a mirror, the reflection will turn the green hair into snow, and the eyebrows will turn into ashes; if there is a person, look at each other at the window and hold hands, and the shadows picked up under the moon will become old souls. The night comes to open the door, and the rain is the Qingming Festival. I glanced at the flowers in the fleeting time, caught a pair of swallows and tied them to the corners of the rafters, listening to the singing of the birds all the time. Little did he know that the fallen flowers covered the flowing water, and the flowing water was flowing towards the east canal. Beside the canal is the ancient town of Luanpei, where my thoughts in this life lie, resting on my embroidered life of reincarnation.