The sound of bells and chimes in the Zen room is lingering, and the fragrant path in the small garden makes anyone worry.
The dripping eaves of Zhu Ling are knocked more leaky, and the double shadows of green lanterns listen to crickets.
The spring breeze is free and easy for a few times, and the thoughts are thicker in the quiet moment.
Before I wave my sleeves and bid farewell to the Qingming Festival, when will the misty rain end?