A faint comfort quietly came here, sending away the lyrics of the wind-dyed birds and throwing out beautiful poems of infinite joy. The wind quietly picked up the scattered petals and stepped on the golden stirrup, blocking the roar of darkness.
I growled at the rustling noise and disturbed the peace. The reflection of the river shows a corner of the sunny day, the sunrise leaps from the horizon, the wind takes away the qualified works of making waves, and throws the dark magic knife into the foot of the western mountain. The bird stood on the branch, tearing at the bones of the wind, the jealous mountain peak, and not touching the bent neck of the bird. The song is still born in its familiar valley, and the spoiled moonlight is reflected on its towering peaks.
The sun, your light, breathes all your happy notes. My heart flies in the sky of Yuan Ye, close to the soaring wings, carrying deadly harmony. In the belly of the wind, I am stained with the dew of the air, leaving the hurried time and entering the air.
A yellow leaf is singing in the sun, and a madman with a moving mouth is gently telling the resentment of seasonal exchange: as soon as the autumn wind comes up, the dead leaves fall one after another, and the fallen leaves fall into the clear water to sip, and the willow branches droop wild and wishful thinking, with no opinions in their eyes. In the desolate world, they despise those who wish to fly with wings.