Sifen, Sizhi

Years pass by, long and glorious, I climb the crane platform, the carvings are cold and green, the courtyard is green with pines and cypresses, dyed with Zhuge, the long wind sweeps, the abyss is deep.

Slowly scrolling, diligently writing books, covering the surface with black seals, and thick paper along the edges, splashing thousands of words, traveling in the flowing clouds, and the wind carries the clouds.

On the mountainside, on the other side of the hills, there are thousands of sails of trees. The trees are scattered with waves, and their leaves are thick and green. They discharge the moisture from the sea, and they play songs and make up the jade.

In the morning, the branches and pine branches are slightly moving, the dust is broken, the trees are trembling in the morning, the catkins are falling, the vast wilderness is lonely, and the earth is wild.

A thin cup, a bottle of clear wine, stop for a minute, boiling, like smoke and silk, flying in the pavilion, high-end mahogany, splashed ink on white paintings.