Wan Li in the world of mortals, flashy and silent, passed sideways, alone in front of your eyes, remembering the empty misty rain of that year;

2.

Peach blossoms are ten miles long and reflect red cinnabar. The wind has gone without a trace. Deep in the bridge stack, the fog is dense and rhymes into a song "Up Slope". It is difficult to find him, and he sighed shallowly: like time, he is isolated from the world;

3.

Ten years of sorrow and joy, a parting, deep in the cuffs, always singing and sighing as always;

4.

The warm wind is slightly drunk, the lights are blurred, holding an oil-paper umbrella, listening to the sound of the piano, and the Iraqis are shallow;

5.

The first thin shirt, yellow pear moss, the old shadow returned, laughing into tears into madness;

6.

That year, the end of the world you mentioned was buried outside Shili Pavilion, with all the flowers falling through the ages.

Primitive cliff. . . . . . Please ignore the poor writing.

Hey hey.