Bit by bit Basho was heartbroken, and the voice reminded her of the past. When I want to sleep, I still display old books. Yuanyang's small characters are still written with a rusty hand.
Tired eyes are blurred for a moment, half blurry when looking again. There is a solitary lamp in the cold rain in the secluded window. After all the materials and love are exhausted, is there still love but no love?
But he said
The rivers and mountains of today and ancient times are uncertain. Amid the sound of horns being drawn, horses come and go frequently. Who can talk about the desolation? The west wind blows the old red maple tree.
There used to be countless grievances. The iron horse fights, the road to Qingzhong at dusk. How deep is the love? The sunset in the deep mountains and the deep autumn rain.