Snow falls and hides in the wind, and the breeze blows it away. Plum blossoms are proud of the snow, looking forward to the beauty reflecting the pupil from afar. Snowflakes, independent of them, a touch of acacia in my heart, can a beauty know? Only in the wine. I just want to meet in my dream, but I don't know, and I wake up from the beginning. Maybe he wrote it.