There was no spring in 1644 in my memory. The flames of war in the sky burned away the last ray of dignity and pride of the Ming Dynasty. The dark red sky was wrapped in thunder, and it was unclear whether it was blood or tears that fell.
Standing on the city wall, she suddenly saw the last emperor of the Ming Dynasty seventeen years ago riding his horse and singing by the West Lake, looking like a graceful and elegant young man in every gesture. She started her unstoppable pursuit again in the seventh year of the Apocalypse, and accompanied him to witness all the sorrows and joys in the last years of the empire. However, the ups and downs of this life could not smooth out the curve of his eyebrows, and the ice string of the pipa could not sing a bad song in his life. His merits and demerits will be judged by future generations. The real him has long been lost in the vicissitudes of life that have passed by in a blink of an eye. His face is blurred between the lines in the history books, and the remaining legends only float gently in the still waters of the south of the Yangtze River. Pushing the waves with an oar, he lowered his eyebrows and looked carefully, the mist and rain in the south of the Yangtze River, the ice and snow in the north, the ripples were intertwined with time, and finally he saw the lake water converging into his dark eyes.
When I wake up from the dream and see the light rain, the mountains and rivers still seem gentle as before.
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