When a spear falls, the wind follows me after the moon.
The world is like a dream, you will never forget it.
Li He's "Beginning with the Book of Rites".
Sweep away the horseshoe marks and I will return to the closed door.
The rice in Pike River is ripe, and the dates in the small trees are spring.
Hang it on the wall as a curtain and a horn towel.
Dogs go to Los Angeles, cranes regret traveling to Qin.
Earth-sealed tea leaves and mountain cups lock bamboo roots.
I wonder who filled the clouds last month.