In April of the 16th year of the Ming Dynasty, Xuanjiang was clearly sunny, but it seemed to be covered with a thick layer of snow.
At the moment before the execution, Jiang Shiyan held the dried rose petals in his hands and took one last look at the long-lost moon.
He smiled and said to the wind that had passed away: "Zhao'er, tomorrow will be a sunny day."
We will finally see the light of day.
When the rain falls, the moon remains under the Huai Bridge, the boat swings by, and the cold waves are difficult to break.
I hate being so far away, and the locust trees are cold, but I still miss the spring of April in Xuanjiang that year.
Yun Zhanyu kisses and soothes this empty city of longing. The remaining warmth left by the wind evokes water patterns.
But the night was too late, and the dim lights were scattered in the smoke.
How can I waste this deep love? I sigh that I will never meet again in the rest of my life.
"The sand comes and goes, the wind roars and the clouds roll, but you are the only one who can shake my heart with thousands of miles of waves."
Intention: as sweet as glutinous rice