The emerald mountains are unbrushed, the osmanthus dew is deep, and the golden lotus island is sprinkled with falling petals.
The bright moon hangs low, tired of the fame and fortune. Raise the cup in silence, hands in the sleeves, old melodies with new tunes. In the world of fireworks, there is still half of the dealings with me.
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The emerald mountains are unbrushed, the osmanthus dew is deep, and the golden lotus island is sprinkled with falling petals.
The bright moon hangs low, tired of the fame and fortune.
Raise the cup in silence, hands in the sleeves, old melodies with new tunes.
In the world of fireworks, there is still half of the dealings with me.