A pillow of yellow beams, lost in the mist, Zhuang Sheng dreamed of dawn, right? No? In the blink of an eye, the clouds and smoke disappeared, and suddenly, it was shocking that a hundred years had passed. It's easy to get old, but it's hard to repay hatred. I travel a lot, get drunk a lot, and stay a lot. The empty bottle weeps at night, the green mountains are silent, and the remaining light shines on the building. On the Broken Soul River, I want to drink but look back.
There are fifty strings of brocade strings for no reason, each string and column is reminiscent of the past.
Zhuang Sheng was fascinated by butterflies in his morning dream, and he 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.
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It's a very childish article, a bottomless pit, so enter with caution.