Reading Song Ci at night, I feel that a dynasty that has passed away is coming to me like a mighty team. They walked through the west wing, the dissolved moon, the breeze in the yard, the catkin wind all over the floor, the east fence after dusk, the willow trees in the west of Bishui Bamboo Bridge, the Xiao Xuan window where the bright moon was dressing, the boundless flowing water Chutian and thousands of customs.

My eyes are drinking poetry, and a deep sense of history is forced in my heart. Small lights are like beans, burning their flowers and blurring my eyes. In this montage-like trance, my soul has already returned to the poetry dynasty that has fallen into the dust of history.

If I were to practice martial arts with a three-foot sword in the Song Dynasty, I should have the generosity of the legendary swordsman. Ride my bordeaux horse, take my Qinglong sword, and go straight to Huanglong with Yue Fei to talk about the thirst for Hun blood. In the vast dormant winter of the world, we set out to fight in the middle of the night, and the falling snowflakes bloom on us like pear flowers, on our halberds and in endless cold nights. At dawn, the sun was red with cold, standing on the top of the mountain and smiling at us. We came back victorious, with the enemy's head in our hands. Looking ahead, endless snow covered our route. Looking back, thousands of miles of ice blocked the entrance of the invaders and sealed the battlefield that had just been killed. A glass of turbid wine tastes like snow. When the wind blows, we scream at the sky and sing to the snow! The dust settled and continued. As the hero lay dying, he suddenly looked back and looked at the horizon, shedding tears on Man Chun's shirt sleeve!

If I was in the Song Dynasty, reading should be my life. On the morning of mid-spring, the crystal dew wet my hut, the gentle oriole sound on the pine and cypress trees, and the carp shadow swimming in the pond. I live at the peak of Qinggeng, sitting alone on the railing, reading the wet birdsong coming to me along the sunny road, reading the sound of bamboo jointing outside the window, and then writing poems, just like a group of butterflies in front of the window, catching boundless spring.

If I were in the Song Dynasty, I would step on my shining lion and horse, indulge myself, spread deep and shallow hooves on the ancient post road with few pedestrians, write poems and rhyme all the way, pursue the only true feelings in the world, and go to the doomed meeting on the Sansheng stone.

I woke up slowly and landed dimly outside the window. There was a faint pure and quiet Iraqi who stopped to wait for me. The spring breeze is chilly, and people and things related to poetry are gone. I'm crazy, with my chin cupped. ...