Xueluojiuhuang

At the end of the year, the cold is bone-chilling. The broken snow is like dust, covering the nine desolate mountains and rivers. Suddenly, a child's voice floated up from the depths of the snow curtain, clear and clear as if the first ice was cracking: "The snow in the sky is shattered into nine wastes, and the white hair is white in the silence of the glass..." The voice gradually faded away, like catkins scattered into the vast sky. I suddenly saw that thousands of years of infatuation ended up in a lonely grave with a puddle of snow, and all the eternal obsessions were chanted in the wind.