Exposure

The pen leaves a note with peach blossoms in spring; the wind blows the willows and swallows fly into the sky. Cooking wine among the flowers makes you drunk mentally and physically; reciting poems under the moon creates a quiet and serene mood.

The sky is blue and the clouds are written, the valley water is clear. The flowers are flying in the Qingming Festival, and the mountains are green with cold food. Drunk together by the river water, the cup is empty and we are thinking about each other in the distance. The ink is exhausted to soothe the sorrow, and we drink the eternal spring together.

Looking for dreams among the flowers and following the distant spring. Under the moonlight, I think about the late cold. The willow leaves dance in the wind. I can still smell the fragrance of pen and ink in the humble room.

The sound of flutes lingers in the quiet bamboo forest, and the ink color is elegant and clear. The thin pen becomes green with the wind in spring, and the scenery of the fallen paper among the flowers is always new.

The river waves are gurgling in the rainy spring, and the flags and guns are slowly rising, and the green tea is new. The new buds in the pot are not old, and the fragrance of tea is not inferior to that of flowers. The endless scenery makes me travel far away, and I still miss the lush greenery of my hometown. When Yifan returns, he invites guests and cooks fragrant tea in the spring spring of Jiangcheng.

Flowers flying in the spring ask questions, bamboos and green swallows express their feelings. The drizzle contains smoke on the trees, and the spring breeze dyes the trees green. The Liuwu Lake is beautiful, the lotus fragrance is fragrant and the moonlight is quiet. The scenery is infinitely beautiful, and Yunfei's case is free.

How can a small room confine the inner world? A small screen can still illuminate the face of the moon. The keys are like rain, and poems are inspired; the vast sea in front of the screen is praying for wonderful words.

The bright moon is unintentionally clear and cold; the breeze is sentimental and the night is slightly cool. A stroke of consonance follows the spring far away; the meaning of ink accompanies me every step of the way.

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The life written down is full of joy, anger and sorrow. The years in the poem sing out the snow, moon, wind and flowers. Everything is in the pot, and the brew is bitter, spicy, sour and sweet. In the mountain of books and the sea of ​​ink, I can see all kinds of love, resentment and hatred.

Candles invite the moonlight to gather in front of the window; ink dyes poetry on the table of thoughts. Only the fragrance of books can intoxicate visitors; the glowing moonlight in the writing is sultry.

The wind in Xiaoman is full of summer flavor; the lotuses are green and the willows are smoky. The sound of frogs and drums croaking by the pond and the river; the sounds of thunder and rain are heard as mulberries and silkworms are fattened. The ears of wheat are full between the ridges of the farmland; things are so small and full. The poem is finished and the pen and ink are thrown away; walking in the misty rainy countryside is enjoying the crops.

The wind from the sky stirs up the sky. The stars fall in front of the screen at midnight. Wave the wind and rain with the intention of the pen. `The fragrance of ink is given under the clear moonlight.

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Looking at the Kunlun clouds in the distance, I write; I have the bright moon in my heart and the water is spreading. The flying clouds embrace the moon and the ink is smudged; the free writing makes your mind free.

In spring, red flowers and green willows bloom, and the wind blows through the green grass and smoke. I often think about the willows by the stream, and I always recall the moonlight outside the window. Drink light sake among the flowers and taste the fragrance of tea leisurely; look up at the auspicious clouds and the moon, and write leisurely articles.

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I lie drunk in the green mountains and don't want to wake up; I linger in the clear water in search of leisure. One stroke breaks open the sky; the light ink paints out the elegant charm.

The shadow of the candle invites us to gather in front of the moon window; I came without any intention and my heart is not empty. Drinking wine to make the flowers bloom is met with unwelcome guests; they only leave poems and books to save me.