In May of that year, a grass green ridge of a ridge. I sat you see rain flow. In some gentle words in my mind the way into the green, and seriously pumping branches, blooming flowers. The wings of birds, flashing water droplets shimmer, toward the vast distance. Whose eyes, in the misty rain in the 10,000 kinds of style? Whose light language, fiddle corner flower, a flower in full bloom? Who's hand washing a crimson rain hidden?
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