The wind blows the mountains, and the moon shines. The world of mortals gathers and scatters like a dream, and is deeply sad.
Looking at a gloomy cloud, cherishing the moon, caressing a song and sending it far away, it is difficult to blame acacia.
The wind blows the mountains, and the moon shines. The world of mortals gathers and scatters like a dream, and is deeply sad.
The heart is like a smoke cloud, dancing in the sky with long sleeves, people are thousands of miles away, the soul and dreams are often dependent, and the beauty is empty.
Conan's dream is hard to wake up, and the ancient mountain forest is empty. Listening to the clear spring ding-dong ding-dong seems unintentional, reflecting my long night.