When I was seven years old, I met an old nun in Meishan, whose surname was Zhu. I had forgotten his name. He was more than ninety years old. He said that he would follow his teacher into the palace of Meng Chang, the lord of Shu. One day, when it was very hot, the Lord of Shu and Mrs. Huarui were cooling off at night on the Maha Pond, and they wrote a word, which they could remember with a piece of ink. Forty years ago, Zhu has been dead for a long time. People don't know this word, but they can remember the first two sentences. When you spend your spare time searching for food, how can you understand the immortal songs? It is the cloud of feet.
Ice muscles and jade bones, naturally cool and sweat-free. The water palace is full of fragrance when the wind blows. The embroidered curtain is open, and a bright moon peeks at people; people are not sleeping, leaning on pillows and hairpins with messy temples.
Standing up and holding bare hands, there is no sound in the courtyard, and sometimes I see sparse stars crossing the river. How was the night? It's the third watch of the night, the golden waves are light, and the jade rope is turning low. But when the west wind comes, it doesn't change secretly in the fleeting time.
In fact, there is a legend hidden behind Su Dongpo's poem.
Conception: