In order to meet you in spring, I painted 5,000 bluestone alleys and 30,000 awning boats, all waiting for you to help me cut the spring breeze in February.
The spring breeze once invited me to wait for the pear blossoms to fall on the branches, and then it drizzled at dusk and rang all night. Blow out all tenderness and joy, only let prosperity last forever, and don't let dreams fade. Now I have completely forgotten it, just like a crescent moon, thinking about it.
Obviously, I just passed under the flowers, and when I turned around, it was already a long mountain and a long water, and thousands of trees were lonely.
Years are cool, a long misty rain, whose memory has been wet, whose tender and lingering dream has been left by the cream-colored Jiangnan.
I am incompetent, I have not been favored by the girl, and I have been bothering her for a long time. I don't blame that girl. At this point, all love stops at lips and teeth, and I am addicted to the years. I won't live here.
Pick up the axe to cut off this life, bring carp to the village mash, cut off the silk tree, hang up the book in the morning, and never dream of rivers and lakes. Crossing the spring, baking tea and drying grain, you come with me.
As the night gets deeper, light a carved flower and slowly sing A Qin's songs. The spring breeze in March is cold and windy, drizzling and wet, covered with wind and frost. If the guests don't come, make tea to sober up and drink alone in the cold. When I move to a quiet place, I will forget my past life.
In the process of filling the crown, fame and fortune are sweet, and the jade plate is inclusive, not ugly. Sipping water, the stone room is danqiu, the moon invades the cold felt, and the sea is in the autumn sky. Standing in the clouds, the five lakes smoke into your arms.
Spring stings and it rains widely. It should be the camel cloud that missed the spring, so that the last month of summer was tired of kissing lotus fragrance. You stand far away, wearing faded blue silk, folding shoes, blowing willows across the corridor, awakening the fish in the river and coming back to me.
Even if the house is shabby and the stove is cold, it is easy for you and me to pretend to be drunk and cross the spring and autumn by mistake with a glass of rotten wine.