Swing ink to dye dust, dream pillow acacia drink away from sorrow.
Bonuses are easy to drop, water is infinite, and feelings are exhausted when people leave. Acacia is like a ray of respect, but the bridge is broken. Two lines of tears, the night is still early, the snow is like a dream, and the dream pillow is full of acacia.
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The wind is blowing, the sky is blue, the flowers are falling from the Yuanmen, and suddenly they die and are born. Who is stupid? If the dream of a floating life ends in Conan, Yujin's waist is cold, snow is like a shirt, and he is cold and Zen. By the Qinhuai River, the music is playing, the original boats are drifting around, and the bustling water is gone tonight, swept away with the dust of history. However, the long river never took away my remaining memories, standing quietly by the river waiting for your return. In the days without you, my flute has long been forgotten in the corner of the attic, like a lonely northern goose, unable to find its way back. The east wind is thin, who will sing with me when you are injured? Who can get drunk in the greenhouse, be young every year, and depend on each other day and night.
Flowers bloom for thousands of years, the tide rises and falls, and the day rises and the moon sinks. Thousands of years of vicissitudes, fleeting fragility, fireworks are easy to cold. Green willows sway in the wind one by one, leaving bright dark marks in the wind. The ancient Jiangnan always buried the most lonely and lonely past in the world. The beautiful water town tells the most beautiful love, and the gorgeous melody catalyzes my sadness, sublimates into a few drops of rain that gently falls on the lake, and tells the loneliness I have been waiting for. After several rounds of reincarnation, Iraqis still sat alone and sighed all night. With the green light, the smile disappeared in endless sleepless nights.
If the residual flowers are full of injuries, the lead flowers will shed tears, the old dreams of the world of mortals will be empty, and the rain and snow will fly, and the time has become a worry. Curled up in this snowy night, all the people slept, all the hearts rested, all the injuries gushed out, all the dreams woke up at once, the residual flowers were fleeting, and the world of mortals was like a dream. In the dream, there are beautiful flowers and sad flowers. I was lovelorn, carved three stones and buried Datura. Suspicious elves hiding in the stream, cold light dazzling, seems to be leisurely to Zhu Yan, drunk and sleepless. Looking through the autumn water for three thousand miles, I only feel blue silk like smoke. Fairy fairies are everywhere, and the sound of the piano is sparse. Bamboo forest cotton language, v. against; Gently cut the candles on the couch, cover the lotus curtain and drink with you.
Flowers, phoenix rain, tears, flowers, tears, tears, wine, smoke, dust around the beam, lend your hand to cut a ray of moonlight on the lotus pond, may your hand bow, watch the sunset glow turn red, watch the storm surge, listen to the flowers bloom and fall, and listen to the fishing boat sing late. Desalinated poetry is always out of tune with reality, fingers touching flowers is only a moment of confusion, hazy moonlight is only a moment of indifference, current events have moved, and I feel that the years are seamless, washed away, helplessly waiting, the beauty has not returned, and my leisure is heartbroken.
Wind and rain road, tears, moon shadow, midnight mistake, past that can't go back, dream that can't go back. A tear of parting, a broken bridge with broken snow, no return. The sound made people cry, full of twists and turns. They look at orchids flowing thousands of miles, at the sunset glow in Qixia, at the snowflakes in the rainbow, and their dreams are crushed into dead leaves, but no one listens. Between the cracks of the door, heartless, sad songs of the years are empty, and tears are streaming down her face. The world of mortals is noisy, the West Building is intoxicating with smiles, the frosty flowers dye the sideburns, and I am disappointed and proud for half my life ... The snow is cold, and Yi Deng is like a bean. By the window lattice, the golden needle reaches out to the Iraqis, but makes wedding clothes for others. Recalling the dusk of the ancient maple, the sound of the flute has not been broken, and people have dispersed, and it will always be "tears flow first." How much sadness do you enjoy?
Carved on the skirt, fingers lonely and lost. The fishing boat song hindered everyone, so he asked for cinnabar for him and embroidered a picturesque picture of rivers and mountains. The sword was cold and the soul lay down. "Half a book ruined the rest of my life." The figure of Hanshan is sparse, the snow is falling, the wedding dress is turned into the left shoulder, and the blood is everywhere, but the children are affectionate, and only the road will eventually forget each other. Is it a flower burial? Pile up a grave. Up to now, tears are streaming down her face, clouds are drifting away, and recalling the phoenix is not a pair. Drunk to only throw phoenix sound, piano flute. ...
Old vines and trees, ancient roads and westerly winds, thin horses and wheels, blood like clouds, rendering the beauty of the world, a little sad and heartless, negative prosperity. The lonely boat started the moon in the lake, and it was unbearable, and the tea pretended to be angry. Cherish the world, the ancient road is desolate and the emperor is sad, and eventually the beauty loses the world, and the beauty belongs to the beauty. The wind is near Peacock Terrace, and the breeze follows the skirt, but it is unlucky. I don't regret it when I die, I just want to be with you.
In the misty and rainy mosaic, the most neglected years in the dark are saturated with chivalrous tenderness, loyalty to the liver and bravery, dim lights and snuff, and the fragments of history are just inseparable entanglements between regret and commemoration. Colorful leaves and shadows, swaying the freedom of floating, yellow memories, fleeting, igniting thoughts that have no time to condense, who dyed the hair of the years, the temples are like frost, and the dreams are endless; Who painted a picture of lovesickness, lost in the sunset? Those legends that have been sleeping for thousands of years have not said goodbye to the disasters, who have awakened and touched the regrets of their lives, staring at each other, and their thoughts are faint. Listening to the broken string, I broke the arm of three thousand smiling faces. Who set sail and sailed across the other shore where the water has passed away for thousands of years? The sleeping story is full of pure white glass. When I woke up, whose confession had not been completed and whose face had dried up with the flowers. ...
Covered with dust, flowers fly in the distance. I don't know that beauty is a kind of sadness. The world of mortals is a blank sheet of paper. The dust settled and spilled all over the floor. Who provoked Meng Po's sorrow and cooked the soup of dust? After all, it is speechless and desolate! The red candle has tears, and the red dust is full of smoke. It is hard to hold back the tears in your eyes and sigh the world with a smile. Things are always fickle. Yin and Yang face each other, the wind blows the cold window, and blood splashes. I want to throw away the hairpin flowers, enjoy the sadness alone, and write half a paper to leave the sorrow. Silently living the years, listening to the sleeves, fiddling with the strings, but helpless to hide their melancholy. Sighing all over the sky, hiding in the moon, the scene is like the snow disappearing at dusk, burying a few heavy incense, disturbing the dream, and the past life is hazy. Lush vegetation, sweeping away the dust on the case, tears wet Iraqis. I wonder if cold light dyed my temples. Appreciate Jia Jian alone, shake down the prosperity, who will light a lonely lamp?
The sound of pepper room is melodious, but the uniform is abandoned, the tattoo is cold, life and death are endless, and all the vicissitudes are counted. Who sighs in the breeze? Past sadness is like white petals fluttering in the wind, falling one by one in the depths of sad elegy. The chaos in troubled times, the loneliness of beauty's tears, and who is crying and making promises that cannot be pieced together through the irreversible darkness in the distance, the voice echoes in the fireworks floating in the last time. The world is full of joys and sorrows, the world is full of red dust, such as flowers withering, red leaves falling, like water passing by, the prosperous time that can't be left.
A pot of wine from the flowers, I drink it alone. No one accompanied me. Suddenly, you left. You drank a pot of wine and poured a cup of Millennium-old wine. You were drunk alone, learning the heavy peony of Xiangyun, still faint in your dream, still sinking in the stone sound of Chi Pan. Only lonely birds chew the plain poems and sing intermittently. When it is bright, it is hard to find once it wanders. I know that only the carved window grilles with wooden lattices can make wind knives and frost swords. Carved with jade, has Zhu Yan changed? If Jiangshan is still as gentle as before, why isn't the moonlight so leisurely then? I outlined your artistic conception between heaven and earth, and whose scenery have you become? Uninvited phoenix trees and drizzle, dribs and drabs, wash and dress my picture, let the ripples rise and fall at will.
On such a night, even if I get lost in the misty rain building in the south of the Yangtze River, the bell floating from Fengjiang can still catch my distraction. Remember the old story of Xishan in Gusu City? I am a lonely shadow on the fog peak. An ancient dream, even if it is called by previous lives, how can it reach your pillow in the vast Taihu Lake cleaning? Then, please let my pipa hum for you. Listen, the red beans on the strings of the pipa in the mountains say acacia. Listen, it's very cold at night at Baishi 24 Bridge. Listen, at the end of the song that travels less, the mountains are scattered on the river. Listen, who do you know about Liu Qi's Thousand Customs?
Remember last night, the west wind was cool, and the grass outside the Qin Fang Pavilion was yellow. The curtains were half rolled, and the white atrium was covered with frost. Vaguely, the bamboo shadow whispers, referring to Ling Bingxian's switch to business. Pear blossoms dissolve the moon, and the strings sound bleak. Gu He hoe flowers consternation, tears spilled xiangshan hesitated. Dong Jun is going to marry Luo Hong. Why did he get together and leave in such a hurry? The loess in Longzhong is unlucky, and my heart is broken under the screen window. Since then, thin inkstones have burned incense night after night. ?
Candle shadow shakes the awning window, Tan Ying swallows sorrow, tea adds fragrance, a drop of crimson tears drops, and you are dyed purple. The flowing summer is beautiful, and the wind and bones rest the world; Ruyan Liu, the snow looks unfamiliar to Han Xiao. It has always been shallow, but how deep is it? Who promised to die that year?
The night is cold, I feel lonely countless times, and I am also thinking when I am drunk, full of feelings. I can't see through the autumn water and the world of mortals. I sigh with nostalgia, I pour out my past tenderness, and I sing about love in this life. Old friend, where is the soul? Let bygones be bygones. Who's obsessed with who? Who is nostalgic for whom? Who writes lyrics for whom? Who sings for whom? In this life, who feels sorry for whom? Who is heartbroken for whom? Who's waiting for who? Who killed for whom? The wind is cold, the river is cold, and the mountains and Leng Yue are cold. I care about old feelings, drink acacia alone, and write a piece of paper.