In the fourteenth year of Zhongzheng, in early spring in Jiangzhou, it rained for a moment. Fragrant flowers splashed down the bluestone road. Yan Huaijing's shoes stepped on them, and the water droplets splashed up unknowingly stained his clothes.
When he arrived at the door of Zhizhou Mansion's library, he stopped and saw that his shoes were wet. He did not step into the room. He stood under the eaves outside the threshold, closed his umbrella and saluted. I still remember that the house was full of spring, and we were smiling at each other with our shirts off.
A wrong poem, a policy theory, a chess game.
Bamboo paper and jade pen are gathered together into writing, but there are two traces of lovesickness.
Intention: In ancient official circles, there were always people who maintained their original aspirations
