There are fifty strings on the brocade harp for no reason. Each string and one column reminds me of my youth. Zhuang Sheng dreamed of butterflies at dawn, and looked forward to the emperor's spring heart filled with cuckoos. The moon in the sea sheds tears, and the warm sun in Lantian produces smoke. Can this feeling be remembered? It was just that I was at a loss at that time.
Intention: Jinse Sisi Hua Nian