The Painting of the Bone Demon on the Other Side of the Apocalypse

On the road of mortal world, only the shadow leans toward someone. Who can remember when the voiceless fingers are cold? The leaves are folded and outlined, looking for you once, and withered. Pulling the core to burn the soul, leaving me alone, will be annihilated. The purple shirt is swaying, the pen and ink are stiff, the light clouds are shaking without being surprised, and the sleeves are hidden, relieving the sorrow, a few lines of poems, passing by the cold moon are just wind and frost. Watching the setting sun, flowing water passing by, drinking a glass of jade, it is completely different. As bad as the south of the Yangtze River, the sequel began to disappear in fragments, the mind wandered, and a smile finally replaced the sorrow. Lazy under the lamp, those who come here should not hate those unnecessary injuries. Looking at the river, I can't lock the autumn, and it becomes more and more desolate. I pick up the book, but I can't dig out the way back, and who cares if the geese stay. If you can't see through it, you will make lies. If you can't understand it, don't pity each other. The mist and rain in half the city, the wind and moon overnight, pile up, and a touch of rice paper, pouring down.