It was a broken dream from the old year, lost in the traceless history.
?? The small seal incense burns lightly in the golden furnace, ink stains the south of the Yangtze River, the book paper is decaying like smoke, the new tender grass is reflected in the mirror, a piece of grass grows and the oriole flies in the sky, the sandalwood is scattered with the wind in the fleeting time of the south of the Yangtze River.
I have never gone back to Jiangnan alone.
Conception: