If it rains a little, it will be quieter. In Qian Shan, on the tomb of the Thousand Tombs, blurred banners roll, beside the Thousand Monuments, beside the Thousand Tombs, brilliant azaleas bloom, yellow paper spins low, firecrackers whimper, under the blue sky, thousands of people worship, and on the tomb, thousands of souls linger and tremble across time and space.
Every year on this day, there are thoughts. With the cuckoo crying loudly, it grows in the hearts of the poor in Houyan. No matter how far the journey is, the kite flying freely will be led back to the altar of hometown by a slender thread, kneeling on a pile of loess, igniting the long-cherished grief, and then calling the special line of heaven, so that joy and sadness can be interpreted into tears. The ancestors separated by yin and yang still release warmth.
Time, life and death, just like two sides of a coin, are easily lost, but at an argument node between eggplant and jujube, which makes you deeply remember the result of falling with the wind. Perhaps, Du Mu's eyesight is dim, and he only remembers the apricot blossom wine in the rain, but more forgets the sacrifice beside him. Maybe there isn't enough rain. Wang Yang in Qingming Ci can't drown the flowing water. Jiangnan at this time is just a Guang Chen burning with incense sticks. There are rape blossoms, azaleas and spring tea in April.