A machine weaves a shuttle and flies away. The blue room is always worried, trouble sleeping. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.
Two machines, the quiet sound of the moon is sparse and inextricably linked. Weave it into a paragraph and write it back. It will be sent to Iraq.
Three machines, there is a flower playing in the middle, delicate red and light green, and spring is beautiful. Be sure to fold it early, one thick and one colorful, and don't treat wheat straw.
Four machines, Yuanyang wants Qi Fei, and the poor old man is white-headed spring grass, deep in Han Xiao, relatively bathed in red.
Five machines, the heart is dense and smart, and the acacia branches are connected. Under the double-headed flower, two concentric places, a pair of young people.
Six machines, carved brocade, half-off cloak, blue room with spring pictures. Furnace seal script is a long line, and embroidery is late.
Among the seven machines, the spring silkworm spits out all the silk, which is easy to cut Luo Qi. Cai Feng, the immortal bear for no reason, has two kinds of clothes.
Eight machines, delicate jade hands are always alive, and the spring rhyme of Shujiang River is full. Musk deer, embroidered quilt in greenhouse, delayed to return.
Nine machines, one heart grows in flowers, and flowers make red quilts. It's all spring, so I'm not afraid of sleeping for a long time.