There are bosom friends in the vast sea of people, and the dream of life is not slim.
Infinite reverie is everywhere, and words are put in the pen.
If the clock smiles across the mountains and rivers, the beautiful face hides the fairy town.
The sun, the moon and the spring lake hide the chest, and the poem is more fragrant.
Reality is like a dream, and ideals are like Zhuang Diexiang.
Passing by, the years are ruthless with the sunset.
Affectionately waving a jade pen, the charm strikes, casting a brocade chapter.
Knocking on the screen and chanting at random, the snow in the north is fragrant, and the dream in the south is long.