In the first sight, the rain and the wind, the sparkling waves are low and the sun is red.
The low water is cold, the sparkling fog is clear, and the rain and wind are clear.
The swallows fly again, the cuckoos cry emerald, and the butterflies are vaguely wrapped around people's clothes in dreams.
In the Qingming Dynasty, the ancestral grave is sacrificed by the spring, and the rhododendron swallows on the ridge cut the spring clouds.
The flowers are blooming, the swallows are back, and the butterflies are flying away to Chutai.
Swallows fly willows, leaning on the building alone, and I don't know the butterflies in my dreams.
Zhuang Zhou butterflies love flowers, to Luoyang, cuckoos cry blood, mud swallows nesting busy.
Mandarin ducks dream of broken flowers and red tears, butterfly souls return to grass and green smoke, not cuckoo swallows are murmuring.
It is clear again, the willow is green, the flowers are all over the ground, and the dream is blowing to the border city.
Whose house does the mud swallow fall, the blood cuckoo reflects the sunset, I don't know that I am a guest in my dream, and I wake up with butterflies and peach blossoms.
Butterflies flutter and dreams turn into clouds, and cuckoos cry blood and mud willows.
The moon is down, the dance is dancing, the cuckoo is still crying blood, and the swallow has returned for another year.
The spring breeze calls the cuckoo one night, the double flying swallow butterfly looks for fragrance, and the mandarin duck plays by the water in the dream.
Dancing, willow green and pink cries rhododendrons, and butterflies in the south of the Yangtze River surround the flowers in the dream.
Dancing and dancing, the dream vaguely cries blood spring returns, another year.
Phoenix Terrace, double fly and come, only the cuckoo swallow is open for you.
Cuckoos cry, double flying swallows and butterflies looking for fragrance, ducks playing by the water.
The flowers are blooming and desolate, and the cuckoos know what I mean, and they also call each other.
Last night's dream fell with the spring rain, and when I woke up, the butterflies danced, the cuckoo cried blood, and the swallow mud shadow was not returned.
The mountains are full of blood, the swallows come back to the mud, the flowers are dancing, and the spring breeze blows the dream of Yaotai.
When will I return, crying cuiwei, loving mother's tears, waking up to see butterflies flying around the court.
Wild flying butterflies, empty dreams of phoenixes, crying blood, mud swallows are busy nesting.
The spring breeze blows dreams to the end of the world, it is my home, red like fire, and the swallows cut the morning glow.
The cuckoo cries blood for another year, butterflies fly all over the ground, and spring is infinitely dreamy.
The spring water flow in Jitou, the twilight clouds in the sound of the cuckoo, the dreams of people are not dissolved, and the butterflies fly over the small building.
It is good to blow the breeze to dream, according to the nostalgia, the plum blossoms fall on the horizontal flute, and attract the poetic heart.
The poetry is thick and sleepless at night, the shepherd boy flute rings in the clouds, accompanied by a bright moon and clear breeze, and the dream is vaguely to the pillow.
Thousands of mountains and snow, poetry urges me to go nowhere, to the end of the world.
The bright moon and breeze are harmonious, the old songs, the poetry does not know where to go, and a transverse flute tears are swaying.
In the breeze blowing in a dream, in front of the window of the half-round bright moon, the plum blossoms of the horizontal flute of whose house are falling, poetic for nine days.
Floating thousands of miles, the shepherd boy sang the flute for thousands of years, accompanied by the breeze, and the dream haunted the ancient road.
The transverse flute turned into ashes with a poetic sound, and it is still there, vaguely calling Zigui in the dream.
According to Kyushu, a thousand years of poetry and a dream go with the wind, eternal sorrow.
In my dream, I vaguely went to the hometown, a bright moon shines sleeplessly, whose flute blows willows, leading me to poetry for nine days.
I always hear each other, the transverse flute blows the breeze and often accompanies me, and I meet you again in my dream tonight.
The transverse flute people are lonely, full of poetic wine, the breeze and the moon have no care, and they are in lovesick dreams.
In the bright moon and breeze, a few people are stupid in their dreams, and the small characters on the red note blow willow silk.
At the beginning of the awakening dream, the bright moon was on the back of the shepherd boy cow, full of comfort.
Thousands of miles of new poetry, the transverse flute sounds ancient, the breeze often accompanies me, what do you want to dream of the ends of the world.
Why is he afraid of the clouds and flutes, flying freely, the bright moon is a thousand miles together, and the dream soul often returns around the hometown.
The night is cold, tears are flowing, and the poetry in my heart accompanies me to sleep.
The west wind blows the dream late, tonight the bright moon is a song of lovesick tears, and the red leaves are more poetic.
When the wine is strong, the transverse flute calls back to the people, and a bright moon is vaguely homeland.
The transverse flute is poetic to the clouds, and the breeze and the bright moon and plum blossoms are cold in their dreams.
In the middle of the night, a few people knew in the dream, and the poetry could not be sent, and the tears were full of pools.
Fortunately, it became a dream, according to Kyushu, why should the transverse flute be poetic and leisurely.
The poetry has been far away with the flowing water, deep into the clouds, the bright moon is unattended, and a pillow of pine sound is found in a dream.
The transverse flute is lonely for thousands of miles, the poetic wine is a glass of wine, and the bright moon still dreams with me.
Shine on the sky, cross the small bridge, go to the flowing water, and the transverse flute accompanies **.
Where to find a bosom friend in the world, thousands of miles of fate is deep, and the heart field is planted with acacia beans, turning into a rain and poetry forest.
Zheng Huixian Zheng Huixian Chinese art