Girls who like ancient styles may have heard of Xuan Zang's song "Phoenix Cinnabar". This short story was adapted from the lyrics of "Phoenix Cinnabar" less than a year ago and is authorized.
Because it is very short, only 50,000 words, the plot is not rich but very compact. It is only telling a simple story about the promise of three generations. I have been busy with things and was unable to publish the extra chapter "The Country Is Not Like Three Thousand Strings" in time.
, temporarily use this as compensation... Beat me, beat me to death, I will kneel down to apologize!
So, here are the lyrics of "Phoenix Cinnabar" and the link to the original song - 51805331.html lyrics:
The wall mural spitting out tongues of fire responded to the call of distant time and space. The nightmare bypassed the wind and sand. The priest smiled like a false dream and fell into the abyss. The light cut through the reflection and was reborn under the phoenix flower. The unknown road under the feet. The first time I saw her, how many dusky crows were trampled by her horse hooves. Time turned on the lamp.
Looking at the simple painting depicting strong liquor as light as tea and dry and white, I turned it over several times and couldn't put it down. I was worried about the words in my ears. I drank them all in one gulp and swallowed them. How many times have my lips kissed my cheeks in the bronze mirror? The reflections are intertwined flawlessly.
For a few moments, the burning soul was lost in someone's courtyard. The phoenix flower blooming in someone's courtyard was like his unconcealable brilliance. Time passed through the hoarse fan, blocking the wind and sand. When I turned around, the drizzle outside the window continued with a touch of cinnabar. The endless noise buried this
In a word, the sweetness of the spring water cannot keep a scar. The moss awakens despair. Where does the cobblestone road go? The yellowed picture scroll grows out. The branches bloom and the flowers bloom. The melting snowflakes in front of my fingertips are so hot that I can't escape the joy of being under him.
My eyes are drunk all my life, and they can't tolerate other proud people. Who buried them in which well? Under the moon, I picked a phoenix flower and gave it to her. In exchange for a smile, the whole world turned into a mirage. The expression on my face condensed into a painting. Before I turned around, my tears were frozen. I miss you, leaving only that pen.
Cinnabar misses the kiss from another life, waving her sleeves and raising her eyes under the flowers. The fireworks are messed up. Hand in hand, we step on the dusty sand and breeze, playing with the beaded curtains. For a moment, the ice-covered longing is frozen. Even though (far away from the end of the world), the remaining warmth on the chest has never cooled down and I have never moaned.
Forgot what to say, recall the indulgent soul, intermittent echoes, please disappear after lingering. The sunbeam on the dressing table is broken and broken. I can’t piece together the flowers on the other side. The wind blows so big. Thoughts are stopped under the puzzle. Lies are separated into true and false, sealed and incomplete myths are waiting to meet again.
Goodbye in the museum, I think of the mural. The memory floats like sand covering the cheeks. A phoenix flower blooms at the corner of his lips. He caressed the cinnabar on his forehead tenderly for a moment. She regained the prosperity.