📖 Flowers Collection - Volume I

Hills in layers shimmer with golden light, cloud-like tresses brush snow-pale cheeks so white. Lazy to paint moth brows, delaying makeup and grooming. Mirror reflects flowers front and back, flower faces intershine. Newly embroidered silk jacket, pairs of golden pheasants.

Apricot blossoms hold dew-like fragrant snow, and on the green willow path, there are many farewells. The lamp shines dimly in the moonlight, waking to hear the morning oriole. Jade hook lifts the emerald curtain, makeup is light, old brows thin. Spring dreams deeply touch the heart, in the mirror, cicada-like hair is light.

Jade censer's fragrance, red candle tears, illuminate the painted hall with autumn thoughts. Thin brows, disheveled hair, the long night brings cold to quilt and pillow. Wutong tree, rain at the third watch, does not speak of the bitterness of parting. Leaf by leaf, sound by sound, the empty steps drip until dawn.

10 million regrets, the deepest at the ends of the earth. The mountain moon knows not the matters of the heart; the water breeze falls upon the flowers before my eyes, swaying the azure clouds askew. After grooming, I lean alone against the river-view tower. All the sails that pass are not the one, the slanting sun and gentle water flow, heartbroken at the white reed islet!

Morning makeup done on Cold Food Day, willow balls sway between Huadian, rolling up the curtain straight out to the painted hall. Pointing at the Peony First Bloom, still leaning on the vermilion railing as the sun rises, frowning silently, lamenting the passing spring.

Everyone praises Jiangnan's beauty, wanderers should grow old in Jiangnan. Spring water is bluer than the sky, on painted boats, listening to rain, Yumian. Besides the stove, the person is like the moon, with arms as white as frost and snow. Do not return home before old age, returning home must break one's heart.

Now I recall the joy of Jiangnan, when I was young and wore thin spring clothes. Riding a horse leaning on a slanted bridge, Redsleeve beckoning from the full tower. Green screens and golden curves, drunkenly resting among the flowers. This time seeing the flower branches, I vow not to return until my hair turns white.