Dianjiuchip·Guiyunci
Mo Yan, the snow is falling suddenly, and the wine is still warm in the small red clay stove.
The endgame remains unresolved, but an old poem remains.
The sound of the strings is empty. Is it late for the return guest?
After being drunk for a long time, at dusk and after the moon, I went up to the West Wind Tower alone.
Conception: