Weeds are boundless and poplars are rustling.
In mid-September, severe frost sent me out of the outer suburbs.
No one lives on all sides, and the high grave is a banana? Me.
The horse cries to the sky, and the wind is depressed.
It's not a thousand years since the secluded room was closed.
A thousand years later, there is nothing the wise can do.
Always send people away and return to their homes.
Relatives or sorrows, others have also sung.
What's the way to die? I'm on the same mountain.
Don Meng Jiao-Mourning.
On a moonlit night, the top of the mountain is bright, and the spring is thick and not bright.
Under the spring, Shuanglong has no return, and gold silkworm is beautiful.
Morning clouds and dusk rain become ancient ruins, and the rustling wild bamboo wind blows in Asia.
Qin lue
Since ancient times, people have been sentimental about leaving their feet, and they will forget each other if they fight to the death.
Where are the graves in the wilderness? Three feet in front of the grave, there are a few lines of tears in my old eyes.
The eventful spring breeze blows away dreams, and the ruthless Leng Yue shines longer.
Going home is just the new cold season, and I can't bear to see the empty paper hanging on the wall.