One day, I will ride the wind and waves, raise the Yun Fan and cross the sea.
White-headed people at the foot of Fan Shi Mountain, see you in the early spring of 1983.
Wudong is flooded in the sky, and the wind blows in February.
In the middle of the lonely peak, it is divided into Jiangnan, and there is no sail.
Wu Shu's wind and smoke are boundless, and he turns to three seas.
The mountains and rivers in Jiang Shangqing are red, and the far sails are returned piece by piece.
Hanging the sails of the Ming Dynasty, the fallen leaves are behind me.
Qing songs leave poems all over, and spring sails carry wine back.
The sail fell in front of the bottle and the bell rang on the mountain.
Bones are not golden horses, but dreams are empty around Fan Shi village.
The rain is heavy, the sky is not right, and the birds fly slowly.
There are pavilions in the five-color sky, and exquisite immortals walk back and forth.
The pear snow on the partition wall is very delicate. . . That's all I can think of