essay
Drunk stay, the old name of Yuefu; Jiuji is a new talent tune. Write the spring resentment of picking a shuttle with Jiayu's Qingge. The chapter sends hate, and every word is deep. Respect China and dare to be a slogan.
Throw a wisp of silk into the shuttle's heart and weave nine machines again and again. I never know how much I know, and I hate the spring breeze for a long time.
A machine. The time of knitting flies. Lan Fang never sleeps at night. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.
Two machines. Under the moonlight, people are quiet and quiet. Are inextricably linked. Weave it into a piece, weave it into brocade and send it to Iraq.
Three machines. There is a flower playing in the middle. Delicate red, tender green and bright spring. Be sure to fold it early, one thick and one colorful, and don't treat wheat straw.
Four machines. Yuanyang wants to fly together as soon as she knits. The poor old man is white first. Spring waves of green grass, deep in Han Xiao, are relatively bathed in red.
Five machines. The period when the soul is tempted. The branches of Albizia Albizia are connected together. Under the double-headed flower, two concentric places, a pair of young people.
Six machines. Carved flowers and brocade are half separated. Lan Fang has no intention of staying in spring. Furnace seal script is a long line, and embroidery is late.
Seven machines. Spring silkworms spit out all the raw silk. If you don't teach, it's easy to behead Luo Qi. Cai Feng, the immortal bear for no reason, has two kinds of clothes.
Eight machines. Delicate hands live all the time on the charming banks of the Shu River. Musk deer, embroidered quilt in greenhouse, delayed to return.
Nine machines. A heart grows in a hundred flowers. A hundred flowers blossom and a pile of quilts are red. I hide my head in spring, so I'm not afraid of sleeping for a long time.
Light silk. Like a jade bed, the hands are novel. Flowers and grass, bright and beautiful. Dressed as a tailor, singing and dancing in spring, flying butterflies and orioles.
Spring clothes. It's sad to dye with plain silk. The world is dull and colorless. It should be abandoned forever like the autumn fan, and there is no time to serve you anymore.
The song flies down and paints Liang Chen, dancing and embroidering. I wanted to hate on the plane, and suddenly there was a heartbroken person in front. When you return to China, you will be good.