If I am a wisp of madness, writing that the earth is desolate, and dyeing a piece of neon clothes, may you pin me to the placket of your clothes.
If I am a ray of moonlight, reflecting the earth for a long time, and a touch of red makeup, may you chant me into a song.
The beautiful breeze warms the south of the Yangtze River, the weeping willows fill the lake, the peach blossoms dance, the Qiong window is spread all over several times, and the spring color dyes my thoughts boundlessly.
The passing years when you beat the horse and drifted away, and the apricot blossom rain stretched, and the tears were barren.
On the other side of the red dust, the white clothes are long, the strange water is beautiful, there is no need to sigh, the love has been flowing for thousands of years, and the smoke and rain are not dispersed.
At the end of the old city, who is the beautiful flower in love? For whom?
The breeze is long, the shoulders of the falling flowers, the sky is blue, the spring is quiet, I am quietly guarding the Chinese New Year, watching the red bloom all over, the heart is tossing and turning, looking back at the family, Danqing painting the fan, bowing down the strings, dancing and obsessed.
Memories crawl all over the bluestone slabs, who is still holding an umbrella, the cheongsam is tactful, Wanxin renders the warmth of the fingertips, the soft sigh between the lips, soft as water, whose ancient road is long?
Whose anticipation is ancient, whose euphemism is the murmur?
Green silk scatter, green silk silk, who calls, who sighs, who knows the blue and white seal, who knows the world?
Painting the window, the slender face, listening to the sorrow a few times, sighing in the wind, the red dust and ink, the autumn water is overflowing, and the tears of the lotus calyx are dyed.
Look at the fireworks of the floating world, the song is like the first time I saw it in this life, but the singing is prosperous and joyful, and the brocade book is difficult to pass on the ruler has not been broken.
Love is unspeakable, infatuated, this life is just to hold hands with you, and share the years of peace.
The candle of three lives is short, and the three lives are filled with lovesickness.
The moon shadow is ever-changing, and there is no escape from the cloudy and sunny days.
The sky is resentful, and it can't bury the love of three lives.
Reincarnation a thousand times, Sauvignon Blanc misses, cutting this relationship, the mountains are high and the waters are far away, who can reduce the mutual understanding?
Let the years settle quietly, and the old city fog will flow into a proverb, just to see you again.
There is no end, tireless, and the silver word incense burns the heart of the snow.
Say that I am longing, I am crazy, I am in love for a thousand years, and the smoke and rain will not disperse...
The long night is sleepless, the breeze is flowing, the sky is full of falling flowers by the railing, and the watchful figure trembles in the light rain.
Looking back, can you see it?
The white lotus in the rain outside the curtain, the silhouette is rising, rippling slightly, the shallow hook is like the water flowing year, morning and twilight, crossing thousands of rivers and mountains, with deep affection to pay tribute, peach blossoms as first seen.
Half of the Xiao is poignant, broken and red, waiting for a thousand years, looking forward to a thousand years, a dream of love, a dream of Jiangnan.
Separated from the old, the old flowers and the old orchid, the old people are speechless, ask back then, what is the green shirt, who is the red face to piment?
Half of the red dust, who accompanies each other, empty labor and thoughts, autumn water looks through, and the relationship is difficult to break.
Study a side of the inkstone, shop the pen hanging, faintly a little streamer ink incense scrolls, unintentionally but see the old time note, the person in the painting can be seen, the green shirt feather fan, faintly dark, gradually distant in the cloud water.
On the side of the cloud building, who crushed the moonlight and printed between my eyebrows?
By the mandarin pillow, who makes gentleness a cocoon around my fingers?
Ask the passing years, who dyed the years white and hid them in my temples?
Ask missing, who sews memories into my heart?
The fog and rain are poetic, the years are shallow, the paper umbrella is lightly rotated, a tossing and turning, and after years, only the king thinks alone.
The Hunan curtain is half covered and half hidden, don't say that the wind and moon are boundless, don't say that the sky is helpless, who has a vague old face in his eyes, and who has been in love for whom for thousands of years?
Ask the dust, who will see the flowers bloom, and who will pity the flowers?
If the two are in love, He Xian Mandarin Duck He Xianxian.
Floating life is like a dream, the past is like smoke, and it is not a thousand sails.
I still remember that year, Yingying was plain, Xuan window Hunan curtains, autumn heart was like a lotus, and the oath was agreed to be in the Chinese year, lovesick and gentle, and meandering for a lifetime.
The bonds of the past, hidden in dreams, greedy for a long time, gratuitous thoughts, and obsessive wishes are like looking for lost letterheads, and they are extremely poor and cloudy, and they will never change.
The thoughts in the red dust, missing thousands of times, will always leave a red line that will be entangled, entangled for thousands of years, and you will only be my dust.
Your smile is as good as it used to be with me, your ancient scrolls are still there, and I am happy in the sea of dust. . .
Fold the flowers and fall thoughts, the moon is light in a thousand bottles, a wave of cold, and the coolness is light.
Zimo Yunxian, the lonely shadow messed up the strings, telling the old days.
You once lingered with a placket, wading three thousand, standing in front of my window, green shirts.
Yesterday was far away, how could the laughter be the enemy of the passing years, the past was silent, the wind and the moon were still nostalgic, the road ahead was long, Fanghua knew who was back then, and who was the lonely heart?
The golden wind and jade dew are cold, in front of the pen lamp, the purple seal, the Duanxi inkstone, and the book is unfinished in this life.
Flower cloud plate, the wind is light, a dream stretches, and a wisp is as light as smoke.
In the heart of a word, a glance into an obsession, the truth is incomplete, who will see the tears slip down? Falling flowers on the banks of the clouds.
Memories of familiar pictures, rain curtains in the heart, nostalgia spreads.
The promise under the moon before the flower turned into three thousand nights, engraved on the eyebrows of the heart, and who will fulfill it?
I can't see through that fate, cut the wisps of thought, thousands of miles away, thousands of miles away, and the good days are all alone.
It's easy to see when it's hard to see, how can you take the drunken red lotus, the wind swings on the small swing, Han Meng touched the peach blossom surface, and danced on the peach blossom bank, it's beautiful, you can see it?
Sleeves flowers, wash the dust strings, and come to the south edge of the river with you.
March day, peach burning, red crisp hands, delicate noodles, flowers like a dream, dream Jiangnan.
Qingluo Hall is multiplying, the plain leaves are around the fingertips, a wisp of lonely soul is leading, through a hundred thousand years, half of the peerless face, just to be left by your side, I ask the Buddha in front of me.
Who opens the picture scroll, and who remembers it?
Who will add the green silk, who will add the flowers?
The passing years covered by the paper umbrella are folded into the makeup, and the afterfragrance spreads wantonly.
Constant thoughts, constant shackles, low eyebrows burned into the wood sandalwood, curling like smoke, a piece of paper flower note, incense obsession.
The peach blossoms are gorgeous, the peach blossoms are scattered, the long song is not broken, looking back and loving, it is another Chinese year, how can you see it?
Love with the rain, love with the smoke, just for that eye, a promise to keep a thousand years, the heart covenant remains the same, carved into Zen.
In the south of the Yangtze River in March, the pen and ink are lightly studied, the Danqing painting scroll, painting a face that is not old in the world, quietly missing you, the thin shadow falls into the lotus pool, and the guqin is played, like you and I have met for the first time.
Turn the pages again, the lingering words you left are full of thoughts, how can you hate and speak, and the falling flowers have become cocoons.
Bluestone slabs, willow umbrellas, flowing scenery does not change, oaths are restricted, lingering several times, love is difficult to change, love is difficult to complain.
The other side is not seen, the ruler is plain, a few lines of plain thoughts, about in the city between the clouds and water.
Even if there is no word, the heart is like a bright moon, Xu Jun has been in Chang'an all his life, guarding the three lives and three worlds of love, dancing three lives and three generations of peach blossoms, flowing for thousands of years, and the smoke and rain will not disperse. . .
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