Years are getting late, just waiting for the cold moon to lean against the window, at the desk, lightly express a touch of leisure, on the note, waiting, night comes, just like waiting for a woman in fate. Youth is fading, and the tenderness of immortality is still hidden in the context of the years. I am still waiting, waiting for the woman who leans on time.
Whose piano sound messed up the rice paper, my thoughts were stained with ink. The clever melody, like a sketch of lotus flower, opened up a pink heart, cut my destiny on my fingertips, played it on the blood-stained strings, and under the night, I sighed softly between my eyebrows.
When looking at the window, the west wind blows up, holding flowers in one hand and piano in the other. A cut of lovesickness, a touch of lingering lingering fingers, you and me are across the bank, but it is the two ends of life. For who is the flower blooming, who is the pity of the flower, for whom you continue to live your life, and for whom you may live long hair without cutting, and for whom you can play that peerless Sanskrit sound.
You are the woman who leans in time, dressed in a light gauze, a finger of a suqin, and any wisp of the westerly wind lifts up the lightly dancing gauze of the neon clothes, and let the three thousand green silks brush her cheeks, leaving a touch of refreshing Xin Fei's daughter Xiang, like a fairy walking out of the painting, is beautifully painted in this tumultuous world. I am willing to hold three thousand obsessed, holding an umbrella on this blooming embankment to wait for you, even for three thousand years.
I am the falling flower that has passed away on the shore, watching the flowing water at the end of the world, and who is writing your name on the flying petals? From then on, I did not ask for a name for the rest of my life, but I hope to exchange white hair with Yiren, frost dyed blue silk, stay in this life, and never abandon in the next life.
Dressed in plain clothes, lean on a railing to watch the scenery, bring a few wisps of breeze, accompany the bright moon into a dream, dye lovesickness, hold a handful of snow drifts, and guard the loneliness. In this life, when will you be my home?
Mu Xue is miserable, who's hard-guarded heart is cold, your tenderness melts in my eyes. Missing has dyed the white snow, and the breeze has been cold for a month. On the broken bridge, who is playing and singing the tragic song on the broken bridge, touching the raised snowflakes with fingertips, and a thousand lines of cold tears?
You are the woman who leaned in time, dressed in a long dress and followed the wind, sitting alone by the curved water, bathing in the moonlight, looking back, smiling, smiling into a landscape. I am the man waiting on the waterfront, waiting for a lovesickness to become a dream, leaning on the window and leaning on the railing, looking at the stars in the sky, turning around, lowering my eyebrows, and flicking away tears. If, love must be unforgettable before it can be remembered. I would like to be like a stone bridge. After 500 years of wind and 500 years of sunshine, even if I have no chance to cultivate and sleep with you, may I be on the same boat?
You have long hair to reach your waist, treat me with a green silk, marry you, okay?
If, my green silk is right, wait for me to spread ten miles of red makeup, and then come to the edge of the water, hold your hand, fill in a total of bonuses and lean on the column, sing a song, in the prosperous age, the flowing water will fall, two by one.