Not as cold and lonely as the dust on the night platform.
Empty step, cold rain break, flower burial weather.
Three days before Ding Si died in the Central Plains, his father died in a dream, dressed in plain clothes, holding his hand and sobbing. Many words have been forgotten.
The old spring will be brewed in Ji Minruo's grave.
Lying in an empty bed listening to the rain from the south window, who will mend the clothes at night!
Afraid of hurting my father-in-law, he sneaked to my pillow.
Tears are silent, only regret to get rid of fickle feelings, and rely on the painter to keep knowledge.
The road near the south of the city is afraid to walk, and Shenjiayuan is the most injured.
The dream is broken and fragrant for forty years, but the willow in Shenyuan doesn't blow cotton.
Under the sad bridge, the spring waves are green, which used to be a stunning photo.
Even if you can bury it, you can't tell a passion. What an illusory hope the fetters of the afterlife are.
A long time ago, we joked that one of us would die, but suddenly, before my eyes, you left.
I miss my parents' tears all night and will take them back in the morning.
10% off, no one will send it!
Nanfeiyan is on the cloudy moon, turning back here, just this month. Birds don't enter, but I don't travel far to Lingnan. I don't know when, when can I return home? The tide receded, the river rippled quietly, the forest was dark and malaria was scattered. Tomorrow I will climb to the top of the mountain and look north at my hometown, or I can see the red berries on the top of the mountain.
I want to hang a sword in front of the grave and listen to the piano on my knee.