Listen, how quiet the mountain is! The language of freedom, undisturbed by anyone. The mountain is far away from the hustle and bustle of the noisy and bustling world. Only when it has sound, I am pleased to sing alone, with gurgling mountain streams dancing and singing. Dancing with bees and butterflies, patches of flowers, and trees put together competing to become a star in the colorful dream, in colorful rays, Fangfei stays in the memory of late autumn in the mountains. How naive are the plantain, ivy, and Bambusa Multiplex, adding a little bit of purple into the mountains around the Liqiang ordinary people’s doors. Qing Long waits in the wind for that curl of smoke, while the servant from the temples of akishimo rides the fog dust, owning what Liqiang side has. A crimson Bougainvillea quietly sticks its head out, beautiful eyes hoping to come. Qiao whispers - whether Yanlong Ming is willing to reach the pinnacle of the mountain in the U.S., in a pool surrounded by bamboo and mulberry trees in the mountains of Taoyuan, adjourning drifting feelings.
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