You are born on the south bank of the river, but look after me in the cold Yanbei.
The young swallow weeps in the golden cage, and the wind and snow bully the fragrant quilt.
A harrier walks on the battlefield, and the cold arrows fly in the rain.
The sharpened sword comes out, and the cold plum blossoms stand against the wind.
May the bird of your nirvana sing so loudly that the whole world will know it.
When the Crown Prince of Southern Xia led a hundred thousand cavalry northward, over mountains and seas, and burned the Imperial Palace of Beiyan to the ground, Li Wenjing still couldn't help but think of the baby who snuggled in his arms and grinned at him nineteen years ago.
(The ending is, please avoid lightning yourself.)
Concept: The end of every era is always accompanied by countless seemingly absurd, but actually reasonable coincidences - the product of countless good times and beautiful scenery, and the accumulation of decay.
