Waterfront pavilions, lingering fate of misty rain and floating dust, hamming Yin Hui, a generation of heroic songs, a curtain of sorrow, blue shirts are unfamiliar. Breaking songs to the sky, the sound of flutes is drunk and cranes sing, the eyebrows are blooming in spring, the red makeup is beautiful, and the bones are clear. The world dare not compliment. Passing the sand and laughing, wine dipped in ink, overlooking the sea, the clouds are light and the wind is light, and the scenery is bleak. Looking straight at the winding path, the dust is flying, and the strategy suddenly rises.