Time flies, two realms of time and space, the orchid grass in the ink is full of fragrance in the west building, the small inkstone is still the same, do you know that the memory is strong? The lingering spring river is waiting, and the lonely orchid and ink are faint.
Small cooking on the terrace, snowdrifts in the wasteland, flowers returning to the house under the eaves of the house, white plum blossoms in the rain, the cold weather is flying, the harp, the horse, the crows have reincarnated, who do you want to say goodbye to?
The sunset is setting on the bank, the scales are swaying slightly, the wind is weeping and the willows are talking about the setting sun, the pavilion is impermanent, the candles are covered with frost, I am leaning on the couch and drinking alone with a pillow to cool down, and the windows are full of chrysanthemums under the eaves.
The mist is vast, and the small clothes are light. The old ruins of the hometown are the rain corridor. The autumn rhythm is Bianliang, and the chrysanthemums are yellow. Tonight, I play the piano and sing, and there is only a wisp of fragrance.
That beam of light and shadow is a familiar beauty, a frozen ending, and a long-cherished dream has become a thing of the past. The small ruins of ancient buildings are as soft as yours, and the faint bamboo forest is looking for light and shadow, but you are the only one.
The good sentences in the book are confusing and boring; leaning on the railing to watch the thin stream and listening to the flute; the September rain, remembering the orchid boat, the dream; the lonely fragrance, accompanied by the rain, is my hometown.
Red candles shed tears, push cups and cups, and drink from the sky; butterflies fly in pairs, turning into dust and smoke for a lifetime, swallows return, holding the title of the old lotus in February; recalling the moon hidden in the pavilion, tears soaking the gauze curtain, green tea mourning , people are hesitant in front of the tomb.
In March, there are countless pairs of orioles as the grass grows; in May, the fragrance of jasmine smells endless historical vicissitudes; in July, there are countless things to see on both sides of the bridge. It looks like a water town; the misty rain in September is cool, and there are endless strands of sadness.