Who released the catkins in March and sent Dada's horseshoes into the spring curtain, which became a beautiful mistake?

Who is it, in the frosty wind, in the cold river, in the fading of red and green, looking at my hometown in the drizzle, so sad?

Who opened the ripples of the West Lake and gradually merged the immortal legend into the fog, but sang heartbroken sentences in Jiangnan and dyed the light rain in Jiangnan into blue tears?

There is no answer to the mystery, but it is a fascinating beauty. Isn't it more attractive to look at the moon vaguely, see flowers in the fog and watch a hidden place?

I like this very much, I hope it will be useful to you!