Jiangnan Misty Rain Chronicles

A wanderer, thousands of miles away from the clouds. The birds are chirping and spring is gone, and the trees are glowing with smoke and color at dusk. A cold spring washes the rocks at the entrance of the cave, a lone ape whistles at the moon outside the ridge, and there is no one around. The dream soul returns to the blue sky, and the eyes of tears look at the world of mortals. The smoke is misty, the wind is miserable, and the soul is dark. Friends from the South China, where can I ask Duckweed now? The blue birds don't come, the pine grows old, the yellow crane and the stone rot, sighing at the world is a sad thing. Looking back at the dream of Nanke, facing the clouds of the northern mountain quietly.