If life were only like the first time we met.
We have experienced so many ups and downs in officialdom and changes in world affairs. Under the cherry blossom tree, I saw the inexperienced Seventh Princess and the fledgling young general; in the gap between the falling cherry blossoms, I could easily see his ambition in this life and his sky-devouring ambition from his clear, boyish eyes at a glance.
No matter how hard we have struggled, no matter how many changes we have gone through, no matter whether the country has changed its surname or the mountains and rivers have been wiped out with blood, no matter whether the world has been unified or whether it has been fought in all directions, even the youthful time that we have spent ten years on, step by step, has gradually forgotten.
It is irreversible, we will eventually return to the starting point.
Yaochi Snow Land, thousands of miles of icebergs, and wine springs singing softly.
Those years when the heart is as still as water can never fade away from such deep Sauvignon Blanc.
The hatred of the country and the family, the bloodshed in the mountains and rivers, the gold and iron horses, the cause of hegemony.
Such irreconcilable resentment, such a gulf formed by so much blood, cannot stop the paranoia of mutual support.
In the end, we are obsessed with something.