In the thirteenth year of Yuanshuo, it was the season when the grass grew and the orioles flew, and the flowers were red and the willows were green.
At that time, after the rain, the river breeze was blowing on my face, and the flowers and leaves were swaying in the distance. I could only hear her saying with a soft smile: "My surname is Chu, my name is Jinnuo, hibiscus is the hibiscus of hibiscus, and a promise is a promise made." I don't know whether it was the sand and stones entering the river that rippled the water, or the shadows of flowers under the moon that stirred my heartstrings.
Is it because the music is wrong or the fate of the world is wrong? It's just that the rustling of Yao strings scares the birds, and the sound of the flute is from that year.