The firefly is gradually withdrawing its fire, and the weft is about to activate its machine. At that time, I was thinking about the word Jin, holding the clothes of a pedestrian. I was longing for lovesickness in Chang'an. Luo Wei's autumn cry is in Jinjinglan, and the frost is desolate and the mat is cold. The lonely lantern is lost in thought. I roll up the curtains and look at the moonlit sky and sigh. The beauty is like a flower in the clouds. There is the high sky of Qingming above, and the waves of Lu River below. The journey is long and the soul is in pain, but the dream soul cannot reach Guanshan.
Sauvignon Blanc is heartbreaking!