Lu you

The grass is barren and the wind is rustling; Autumn sounds pervade the world.

Holding a bamboo pole, you let the shadow in its infancy stand for a long time in the bleak dusk.

The vastness blew away the last cloud on the horizon and melted the twilight. The moon in Nanshan is cold and cool, cooled by your grand, gloomy and honest singing.

Look at the distant mountains, the hazy distance, and the distance where the enemy's iron hoofs are running rampant-a string of tears, a string of pale tears, a string of tears that will not dry up until death, broken on the back of yellow leaves. ...

Every day there is a whip. Every day there is a whip.

The strong voice of "serving the country with an iron heart", the lofty sentiments of "opposing thieves and cleaning up old Beijing", the ideal of "the galaxy helps wash" and the grief and indignation of "Hu still exists, his temples are full of autumn, and his tears are empty" have all turned into old dreams. Only the sword, still under your pillow, spread the rustling murderous look all over the frontier fortress day and night. ...

You wander into the fog curtain; At night, I groaned at the bamboo stick for a thousand years, two thousand years.

Bai Juyi

Autumn wind rustles in the blood-red of maple leaves and the snow-white of flowers.

You stepped on the encroaching weeds, dragged your demoted cowardly body, and slowly climbed up the dangerous building on the bank of the river-the dangerous building added a little melancholy, desolation and shaky panic out of thin air.

A blue collar, swaying in the dim shadow of the sun, swaying the overlapping yesterday, today, today and yesterday.

The experience of "selling charcoal", the horror of "Ling Du", the crying of "binding Rong" and the resentment of "breaking your arm" are all deeply entangled in your deep sorrow.

However, the satirical songs you once sang loudly could not awaken the endless dream of the king's fornication, nor could they suppress the extravagant waves of the nobles and drive away the noise of handsome men.

The river is endless. The vast river flows away the youth of a dynasty and the smile of the vast central plains; What can't flow away is the pain in the wound of history, and the love-hate relationship that thrives in your heart.

The intense, bitter and sad Pipa language in Pipa Travel is full of your distant road.

Chen Zilong

How many are there in Shaoguang? Ying Ge and Yanwu have enriched the spring scenery everywhere.

You put a long reins and let the horseshoe slowly knock on the vast road.

Looking around the fields, Yao Taohe Lane, Rong Rong green grass, regardless of the traveler's mood, or the sound of hanging swords, are still charming and lingering.

The gurgling spring water, flowing through the green mountains and green waters, flowing through the cool tableland, is full of Fangfang's life, but it can't live your long-lost dream.

The love and hate of the old country, like a rope, an iron rope that has been eroded for thousands of years, firmly binds your sadness that there is nowhere to be buried.

The history of "the horn in the cave shakes the sun and the moon", the tragic scene of "the city is green and the night is full of phosphorus", and the desolation of the wind blowing yellow wormwood dew is vividly displayed on the horizontal wall of your skull valley.

-Swallowed tears can't be washed away. They can't wash away the deep hatred between east and west, north and south, and can't wash away the shame inside and outside the door.

The hoofbeat is fierce. Suddenly fierce hoofbeat, raise a heartbreaking ecstasy. ...

In April, I was instantly shocked by your singing.

Ruan Ji

The bare branches shook the heavy night in the shallow moonlight. Sleepless you, wearing a silk coat, sit in the dim light of night.

Wild eyes, silently staring at the stars, Na Yue, wind, dry streams, low walls. ...

Who will be sued by countless words? Who will be sued by countless words?

People in your literary and art circles are full of loneliness, depression, resentment, despair and fear.

The ambition that once wanted to conquer the Eight Wastes was lost and destroyed in the cruel and dirty reality.

Light a wick of incense, and your gaunt fingers gently pluck the delicate strings-the sound on the strings, slip through the blue heart, fly out of the gap where the official lives in seclusion, and seek a little lightness in the cold brought by the autumn wind.

-Delicate wishes are torn by the history of killing. The goddess you love and miss, as bright as the light of day, only flies in the distant dance sleeves of meditation. ...

The vigorous crane, flying high, passed through the clouds covering the world and sang in another vast sky. -The Echo of the Dragon Mix's books, Selected Works of Time and Literature, are all beautiful. The Echo of the Dragon is here, and The Catcher in the Rye is a novel, which is not bad.

Like poison. . . I'll give it to you. I think it's ok. . . . . .