"At the foot of the piece of clay, each grabbed a, will hold a bleeding."
— poet MangKe
Each tree has its own story, there is no scenery in the deep forest, the rays of the sunrise Yang pricking pin pointed lay down
Holding this mud and fire elves, leaning against the tree blow out no one can understand a bit of knot of zen, the pain of heart injury like vines grow unceasingly
Gaze yellow leaves quietly fall into the dust, tonight there will be a closed door, that old Xun and started a new street