a thousand paths without a footprint.
a little boat, a bamboo cloak,
an old man fishing in the cold river-snow.
in August and autumn, the high wind howled, and it swept the triple grass on my house. Mao Fei crossed the river and sprinkled it on the outskirts of the river. The highest one hung a long forest tip, and the lower one floated to Shentang 'ao.
The children in Nancun bully me, and I am old and weak, so I can stand being a thief. I openly carried Mao into the bamboo, and my lips were so dry that I couldn't breathe. When I came back, I sighed on my stick.
the wind in Russia sets the color of clouds and ink, and it turns dark in autumn. The cloth has been as cold as iron for many years, and jiao er is lying down and cracking. There is no dry place in the bedside room, and the rain feet are like hemp. Since the chaos and lack of sleep, how can you get wet all night!
There are tens of millions of mansions in Ande, which greatly protects the world's poor people from all smiles, and the wind and rain do not move like a mountain. Whoo! When I suddenly see this house in front of my eyes, I will freeze to death alone!