Galan

The prosperous sound escapes into the empty door and disturbs the world. The dream is cold and there are many love debts in my life. As you acquiesce, life and death are waiting, waiting for the growth rings one after another. Whose soul is broken when several layers of the pagoda are broken, and the pain goes straight to the mountain gate where a broken lamp collapsed. Let me wait a little longer, and history will turn around. Waiting for the wine to be mellow, waiting for you to play a guzheng. Listening to the laughter that welcomes youth makes many people envious. The annals of history are too gentle and unwilling to write. Fireworks are easy to get cold, people are easy to separate, and you are asking me if I am still serious. After thousands of years of deep love, who else is waiting? How can Qingshi not be true to Wei Shu's Luoyang City? If you are following me, history will turn around and follow me in the world of mortals. It rains heavily and the vegetation in my old hometown is deep. I heard that you are always alone. The mottled city gate is entangled with the roots of old trees, and the word "wait" echoes on the stone slabs; the lonely city you have been waiting for is already mottled. The sound of the pastoral flute on the outskirts of the city fell on the wild village. It is us who are destined to take root.