Waiting for a greeting, warming my half a world of ice heart; waiting for a look back, see my hundred years of pursuit; waiting for a stopping, pouring me a world of prosperity. Ask the world what love is, straight to teach people to live and die together, south of the sky and north of the double flyer, the old wing a few times the summer and winter. The joy of pleasure, the pain of parting, in which there are even more foolish children. You should have a word, muy miles of stratified clouds, a thousand mountains of twilight snow, only shadow to whom to go. The cross fen road, lonely year xiao drums, deserted smoke is still flat Chu. The ghosts of the mountains cry darkly in the wind and rain. The sky is also jealous, not believe with, warblers and swallows all yellow earth. A thousand years, for the sake of staying in the sultans, singing and drinking, visiting the geese Qiu place.
The former dust back, the cup of wine, holding red beans, whose eyes, whose tenderness? Thousands of years later, the West Wing Building, listen to a song of separation from the song collection, buried pear blossom still. The breeze dances to the moon, and the dream falls among the flowers. A dream woke up, as if it were a lifetime ago, between the two eyebrows, acacia all stained. I've been to the end of the world, and I've been drunk on my own. The thoughts that gripped my heart had no boundaries. I rely on the window, let the wind blow, see the flowers fall, yellow flowers under the tree, are you again flick the jade flute, drunken plucking love strings? The first thing you need to do is to look at the millennium and see if you can find a way to get the best out of it.
If you can promise me a future, I will be for you, long sleeves, dance all the jinxed years. I'm not going to be able to do that, but I'm going to be able to do it, and I'm going to be able to do it. I'd like to sing a song with you that will last for a long time to come. West Lake overflowing moon, wisps of cigarette smoke stole the face of who, the piano offender window lattice, nine songs can not be broken who played the tenderness, who tied the red rope, the lone shadow, stroking the piano, a paper of empty memories of who to depict the clear. A moment to look back, the fate of the world is obsessed