As long as two people love us to the end, why covet my Heron? Literati's pen and ink are charming, and people who can't reach for it and never forget it have given birth to the world of mortals on rice paper, which is a dripping acacia that "has no chapters all day long and cries like rain"; It is unexpected that "the water is full, the pulse is unspeakable", and it is graceful and smooth that "the moon moves in the shadows and the clouds comb people in the cloister", which makes people feel moved and lingering, only touching acacia.
Years without poetry are like bluestone without moss, Jiangnan without misty rain, and the strings are cold and brocade.
Fortunately, when it is misty and rainy, listen to it by the window, and the green tea in your hand is more charming, soft and elegant.
The handwritten book of songs, every word and sentence, is the echo of "there are trees and branches on the mountain, but I don't know if I like you"; It is the charm of "Tao Yao Yao, burning its China"; It is the melancholy emptiness of "white dew is frost"; It is the mutual pity of "vote for me papaya, reward me Joan"; This is an unexpected joy of "seeing a gentleman, not liking a gentleman" ... the tune is ups and downs, the mind is flowing, and the human feelings are deep. Hua Song studied the Bible, and it has been passed down through the ages. He is a gentleman and a lady, tossing and turning.
Let's just have some wine. Today and tomorrow, although there are no good companions, there are poems and wine.
Looking at the water, I felt ripples. In a little bit of drunkenness, I dreamed that I had become a butterfly. Zhuang Zhou and I hid the time in our sleeves. As beautiful as flowers and as beautiful as jade, the years pass like water, but a few lyrics in Peony Pavilion and a little soul thought in The West Chamber will make the world not care about the coming and going of two butterflies, and butterflies will not wander in the joys and sorrows of the world of mortals.
When I woke up from my dream, my tears dried up, and Wan Yan drank the same cup, but after one cup, I was exhausted.
In the west wing, Coody Leng stained clothes, wine grinded ink, tea pens, tea condensed wind and Huaying clothes. I don't know who pushed my thoughts and fell on the rice paper, spreading out little by little, layer by layer, but quietly.
Acacia has no reward, lyre has nowhere to send, drunk reading poetry books, and unintentionally losing the world.