Who is it, three thousand prosperous, into your eyebrows; You hate me, but I also hate you. who is it? Green hills are like ink, and plain clothes has white hair; Who is it, under the bodhi tree, with a clear voice? Who warms his years, who surprises his time. Acacia is gentle, write a piece of stationery for you. I only hope that after leaving for many years, I will fall into English everywhere and no longer feel sad.