The drizzle is wet, and the grass hates every year. Smoke locks the phoenix building, which is infinite. My heart is broken.
Dreams are melodious, and I sleep in a bed embroidered with flowers. Fortunately, the door was ajar and the sun was setting. Tears for your last spring.
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The grass wet with drizzle reflects the flowing and blurred brilliance, and every year is accompanied by bitterness.
How many past events in the Phoenix Building are like smoke all around, a vast expanse.
The couple cast in the mirror and the mandarin ducks embroidered on the clothes are heartbreaking.
Dreams are melodious, and when I wake up, flowers are blooming and embroidered beds are piled up.
The door was half open, the ungrateful people didn't come back, and the sun set, only teaching people to cry and grieve in this late spring.