Bearing the intent of three lives and three worlds yearning for you, falling in love in the next reincarnation. The moon is on the willows, people meet at the twilight hour, I wait for you in the season of blossoming flowers. In another life, wait for you in the azure rain alleys!

A gentle breeze blows through the misty pavilion, countless storms and springs across several lifetimes. Gently step over the threshold of time, enter the summer's gaze, and lightly caress the tranquil years. A brushstroke of entangled affections fills the window frames. How many times, Ba Shan night rain, candles in the west window. How many times, Xintang listening to rain, Wuzhang admiring the moon. How many times, Twenty-Four Bridge holding a volume and softly reciting, gazing at Bai Ta sunset, viewing Yituo sunset. Small rain drips through the alleyway, plucking, rain threads. Playing, a long song of affection, long-lasting understanding.

How many times, embracing the lingering traces of past lives, wandering along the old garden, immersed in a fragrant dream. Bearing the intent of three lives and three worlds yearning for you, falling in love in the next reincarnation. 'The moon is on the willows, people meet at the twilight hour,' I wait for you in the season of blossoming flowers. Wait for you in the azure rain alleys.

Azure rain alleys, time quietly stains. Previous lives have a destiny, this life is obsessed. Immersed in the Tang and Song styles, borrow a dream of mist, a piece of oil paper umbrella, to create a heart-to-heart encounter. A pool of tranquil hearts bloom with lotus flowers, willing to be your dancing steps. Cut a passage of flowing water, clip a segment of azure smoke. Using deeply ingrained affection, paint a tale, filling the myriad of hearts with the dreamlike dust of the mortal world. Picking up a drop of crystal-clear, translucent tears, blooming like flowers, beautiful like clouds, blossoming at the ends of the earth.

Thoughts enter the strings of the zither, hearts open like lotus flowers. Softly calling out, gently calling, one thought, one longing, one sadness. Thin faces in the mirror, black hair a small inch, sorrow a hundred zhang. Long hatred in the book, black ink and dusty, bleak. 'Falling flowers stand alone, light rain swallows flying.' A strand of longing in the eyebrows, light and shallow, shallow and light. A touch of tenderness in the fingers, repeatedly turning and turning, repeatedly turning and turning. Peach blossom drizzle, unable to break the past, unable to extinguish the flowing years. Like lotus, the heart becomes obsessed with a thought, dustiness,, like water, long and deep.

'Winding path, flower streams, water follows grass, light rain falls on flowers, missing an old friend.' Gently touching the already dusty strings of the zither, a long-lasting preservation, finely crafted yearning. Red candles leaning together, red sleeves lightly shielding.

Gathering a basin of the water of the soul, moistening the threads of affection. Collecting the scattered love and vows of guardianship across countless lifetimes in the scroll. A pool of tears flowing, passing through the traces of memory. A pool of thoughts flows endlessly in the text for years and years.

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