A grain of sand buried in the temples, from the palm out of the fragrant husky flowers
How much can a word care about the celebration of love hate oath desolation
In the twinkling of an eye, the hero is old
Are you still sleeping alone
Dream of you and me
One side of surprise
The gauze on the shoulder turns into the call of huaqingshan on the knee
There are too many enmities in the world from willing betrayal and lingering
Wind and sand blow away your leisure
Snow melts into white horse in your dream
Your distant steps
Who buried a familiar plum blossom with blood in your temples
In front of the small window, who still has red eyes waiting for you to appear again
Talk to me about that year
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