"The snow falls in the middle of the river in the south sky, and the long silk February flowers are dancing in the wind. I drink three or two glasses of wine in Xiaoxuan, and I lean on the languid building to wait for whom?" Feng Qingyun's tone was filled with hidden thoughts. I don't know who was leaning on the edge of Xiaoxuan's attic at night, reciting poems.
Conception: