The fate of gathering and parting is like water, just for a word, waiting for the next encounter.

Black veil on the head, ivory in the hand. There is noise in the temple, but privacy in the flowers. A room full of silver flowers crowded thousands of households.

The hut is home, and the bright moon enters the fence. Qingquan makes tea and gossips about Sang Ma. Reed flowers are picked by the stream, and Liu Xia enjoys spring buds.

A pot of green tea and some gossip. At sunset, green shoots. Enjoy the prosperity of the world and go home clean-handed.

Memory is like water in the palm of your hand. Whether you spread it out or hold it tightly, it will eventually flow clean through your fingers.

The valley is long, the butterflies are dancing, the harps are harmonious, the fairy sounds are lingering, and the songs are light. The so-called life is not lost.

I heard that for her, you abandoned Fenghua, drank water and lost tea, and since then, you have lost your mind. Half the city is full of smoke and sand.

Blood-stained paintings can't match a little cinnabar in your brow, covering the world, but they are always prosperous.

Time flies, people don't know whether flowers bloom, and flowers and snow melt into another autumn. The hair has changed to white head. Who knows how many times to look back in my life?

I only hope that after the prosperous scenery in the world, between the lines, people and I will forget each other and be relatively speechless.

If I am white-haired and my face is withered, will you still hold my hand and be gentle?