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Thousands of years ago, the cypress trees in front of the courtyard were fragrant, and the spring water gushed nectar.
I didn't come here as usual. I sat in the ruins of the Dojo.
The ancient temple also protects the distant mountain Zen Pass and the Qinglong White Tiger.
An inexhaustible pool of nectar turns into a spring breeze to nourish the world.
The remnant tablet lies in front of the hall, full of sages.
The world has changed a lot, and the ancestral family business has paid off.
Destroying the temple to drive the monks to recall the past, Lu lived in the fire again and again.
I'm glad to see Ding Ge returning to benevolent government. I'm listening to Zen in French.
The desolate ancient temple is locked in smoke, and the monk has not returned for fifty years.
The word is that there is a new son in front of the hall, and the mountain gate hopes to continue to pay.
What about seventy years? A rustling white hair is a south branch.
For the rest of my life, I will make a plan to return to China, and I will send a wave of death to Mao 'an.
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Looking back at the place where I met the wind and rain, going back, for me, there is no wind and rain, but it is still sunny.