Ling Feng Ji

In autumn, the grass turns yellow and frost falls. A naive child is ignorant, yet he dares to speak without fear of the princes and kings. The south wind gradually rises to welcome the northern wasteland, and there are endless disputes, looking like idle people. At the winter solstice, all living beings are in mourning. Wildly asking the sky, who is free in this world! I laugh and sigh to myself, drunkenly sleeping in the dark candlelight of the green tiles.