The trend is still new
Every strange road is a window of parting.
Every lonely walk tastes the sorrow of loneliness.
Every time I choke my eyes in the wind and sand, I know that there is no way back for the journey of obsession.
Every time I look for the way back from parting, I realize that I am so sad and helpless.
The falling flowers and floating ferries have turned over countless lonely sorrows.
The waiting for the edge of the dust is the worry after a little cold.
The end of the red dust. I can't see the confusion of dust and smoke, and I can't see the sadness of the passing years.
The floating world is happy, looking for a soft fragrance in the smoke and rain.
In the dust of a dream, with the affection of a season of heart, I just want to find a first meeting in the south of the Yangtze River.
Vaguely, I walked along the deep willow alley, looking for the remnants of my past life.
There is the most familiar silence in the lilac garden of Nana, and you once said that I am a woman who falls among the lilacs, elegant, mournful and not stunning to the world.
So I have been cruising with the elegance and tranquility of cloves.
Never compete for the world.
You like the misty rain, this thin rain is like a euphemistic poem that refreshes people's hearts, the slightest is in the button, and the buckle is tied to the heart.
So I held a quaint oil-paper umbrella and looked for warmth in the drizzle along the riverbank.
In the haze of smoke and rain, I want to find the first lingering, I want to find the most real picture.
Whose life decorates the bleakness in your eyebrows, whose floating life charms the affection in your eyes, whose wind and dust flashes the coldness in your heart, whose fireworks burn out the depth of your dreams.
I can't bear to look at the red dust on your stage, I can't bear to look at the coldness of your tears, I can't bear to listen to your hoarse singing, whose body is deep, whose god falls on whose body, who is who, who is in pain, who is sour, who is tear stains.
Once you enter the play, you will feel distressed all your life.
Once you enter the red dust, you will never turn around again.
Encounter, a regional rebirth.
Lovesickness, a soulful sway.
Red dust, the lingering of a dream.
Passing years, a sea of love.
Whose memory cares about whose grudges, whose face is sung late in the evening, a thought and a fall of the city, a death and a dream, a promise for the rest of a life, and a lifetime of love.
This scene is shallow, and it warms up whose dreams.
In this life, I escaped and grieved whose infatuation.
The oath you give, how can it not fulfill the smoke of this life.
The lingering you give, how can you not be affectionate to the flower moon in this world.
The poems you gave, how can you not warm the cold snow in the book.