A flower blooms, the beauty that penetrates into the bone marrow. Like, in the spring breeze of ten miles, peach blossoms rain in March.
Jade, blowing through the spring smoke a color. Remember, the old man is still there, and the voice has not changed.
You have never renewed the past, and what is silent in the old dream is a panicked legend.
Dust is like a dream, dreams are like shuttles. Twenty-four bridges of the wind and moon, who are on the other side, put light Luo, looking for butterflies.
Miss, why should the end of the world fall, the vicissitudes. I don't know the spring breeze for ten years, and I have gone to the opening and closing of several degrees of flower language.
A clear song, eyes polished. Finally, I went to the morning bell and the twilight drum, and fell into the mountains and rivers of Ten Thousand Miles.
![I have seen the wrong grave, I have never seen the ancestors who robbed the grave! A man named Lü Shi's 99th generation in Guangxi was depressed, because the yellow mud grave of his family's deceased did not know who reinforced it with cement and shook it[fig]](data:image/gif;base64,R0lGODlhAQABAIAAAP///wAAACwAAAAAAQABAAACAkQBADs=)