You know a long river is difficult to cross. Idiots are always underwater.

The red dust between the eyebrows is far away,

Pour a cold glass and listen to the wind.

In the distance beyond the reach of missing, the peach blossom of dreams is bright into a haze, and the smoke from the kitchen is curling up.

Later, it rained in Shengjing, and one person held an umbrella and two people left.

You bury your bones under the mud spring, and I send snow all over the world.

Years are cool, a long misty rain, whose memory has been wet, whose tender and lingering dream has been left by the cream-colored Jiangnan.

I am the ink in your inkstone. You roll up your sleeves and put pen to paper. My eyebrows are painted on that paper.

Insomnia in the middle of the night, I pushed the door into the yard. The lotus tree in the yard is ripe, and a red fruit falls quietly. When I cut a piece of moonlight, my heart was broken.

I have exquisite wine, a pot of mountains and moons as a pillow and a wisp of dew as a quilt.

Warm a pot of the past and pour a cup with you.

In the moonlight, I write Chunsheng. Write about drinking horses in Xiangxi and writing about Changfeng in Shan Ye.

Write Mao Mao Rain on the road, and then write it on a sunny day.

Return it in early March, and clean up the tea and wine. There is no new wish in the new moon, but the old wish is ok.

All the music of the piano is gathered on one finger, and after the prosperity, it is the first winding in an empty night.

Singing in spring, your bosom friend gives you warm applause again. What about the next song?

Vaguely, life has reached the other side. You put away your harpsichord and stand up.

A deep sigh: I'm tired and sleepy, so you can go.

Patrolling on the river bank of Meilin, the plums who have had a full sleep are just a touch of red in the green, and no one is there at the moment.

Let's pick it up, wash our hands and have a new bag of wine.

The fame of the world can't be mounted on the wall. I ask heaven and earth for some spare money to make a living. simple

There is fog in the mountains, you are my pub; There are deer in the forest. You said it would never change in this life.

After having a big dream, I saw flowers like Fei in my eyes, like seeing an old friend in heaven.

The spring breeze once invited me to wait for pear blossoms and snow on the branches.

It will be drizzling and fragrant, and the flute will sound all night.

Blow out all the tenderness and joy, only let the prosperity stay forever, stop dreaming.

Now I have completely forgotten it, just like a crescent moon, thinking about it.

In March, I made wine with your bones. The bones were so prominent that I couldn't bear to crush them. I put clear water peach blossoms on your face and buried them under the peach trees.

Year after year, the years get thicker and thicker, and the old temples are frosty and bald. When I saw Shili peach blossom, I personally opened this long-awaited beauty brew.

Pat the mud, holding the spring urn, too late to enter. The strong wine wind has burned to the heart and throat.