At night, the flowers are falling, listening to the sound of rain, making me mute.
Ruthless is true and always there, sentimentality is the hurt of parting.
The past is a whirlpool of silence, filled with sorrow and the fragrance of wine.
Today is the drunken whisper at dusk, sad and desolate, already condensed and without center.
People have forgotten, the years are already sick, the valley is empty, the shadows of mountains are crazy, creating the fragrance of wild grass three feet away.
The sword is entangled in the soft wind, the flowers dance with green light, and what dies is the lost moonlight.
Love once, wake up from the dream, look back, it is just three inches of heaven.
I would like to watch and watch the fragrance sinking in the dusk until dawn.
Intention: Under Hengmen, you can live in Chi