The mole steps into the porch of spring
You are combing the tips of the reeds
The waves on the river surface grow the fluff of fairy tales
The fluff is the stamp that the willow grove refuses to collect
The shadow is the dance carefully woven by wild trees
Open your palm—
That glass bead-like moon,
Reflects the dreams sleeping in the beetle's shell
Beloved, the route is the song that the water rat has yet to finish
In all the places where the wind has passed
Please sing with me
The clay pot will grow bells, and the kettle always has the fragrance of flower tea
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The original link is https://fmcf.cc/posts/life/Chunmen_mole_shadow