In Chang'an, sandalwood smoke curls up in the Qionglou Pavilion.
The pen is hanging on the desk, and the gentle movement of your jade wrist brings out the fragrance of ink in my room. Even though the sky is full of wind and snow outside, your blue clothes still roll up your sleeves.
I spread out the rice paper and wrote: "There is a lot of sadness in the southern countryside in the misty rain, but the book business is still popular. The ink seal is not worth a thousand gold words, it only takes half a day to shame a beautiful woman."
So you smiled gracefully, but also shed tears like rain.
Snow, thousands of miles of lonely light and bright moon. Already know that after dawn, parting is right in front of you.
Lean on the railing, pour a cup of wine, and listen to you singing softly to me for the last time. The sound of silk and bamboo sounds, and let the snowflakes dye your blue hair white. The strings were broken one by one by you
Sizhu's voice is hoarse, and she strokes the snowflakes from your clothes and sends you away slowly.
On the desk, all that is left is the poem written for you and the scent of your clothes.
After three lives of reincarnation, the wind and snow remain the same.
On a snowy night, please open the fifty-first page of the ancient book...