Finally, the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River covered the whole world. After the glory of China, it was just a scene, and the mountains and rivers were silent forever.
Cold, cold, old, human vicissitudes.
Beauty is ancient, but this moment is young.
After a hundred nights, who turns the lantern for me, who leans against the door to watch the fireworks for thousands of years.
There are few stars at night, who holds the lamp for me and who waits for the loneliness of the Millennium by leaning against the door alone.
Beautiful women talk to mirrors, leaves talk to trees.
I don't know where to get autumn frost in the mirror.
Since ancient times, beauty has sighed to death, and heroes are not allowed to meet each other.
West wind blinds, people are thinner than yellow flowers.