Now, Uncle Fu gets a bit of PTSD when he hears about being honest, dutiful, and timid. You didn't act like that when Ma Jinping was involved.
He died inexplicably in a prison fight.
That's terrible.
The grass on the grave is already three feet tall.
Uncle Fu opened his palm and asked, "Where does the plan come from?"
Chen Xian returned to his room, picked up a calligraphy brush, and wrote in a neat and orderly style, saying as he wrote: "I originally wanted to treat you all as equals, but in return you treat me like this. Why are you forcing me? Damn it, I'm not human anymore."
Uncle Fu watched quietly, his lips moving in unison with Chen Xian's brushstrokes, unconsciously reciting: "Withered vines, old trees, and crows at dusk... a small bridge, flowing water, and a humble dwelling..."
From initial calm to finally opening his mouth wide and pointing...
He glanced at Chen Xian again.
But then he saw the man with his left hand behind his back, holding a pen in his right hand, bending slightly at the waist, and saying softly, "Brother, could you please grind the ink for me?"
Uncle Fu stared blankly at the man.
The man had clearly finished writing what appeared to be a short poem.
If we follow the previous classification of poetry, it seems to be one of the thoughts of a traveler?
Chen Xian picked up his pen and continued writing.
"A young woman in her boudoir knows no sorrow, on a spring day she adorns herself and ascends the jade tower..."
Two very simple sentences.
Uncle Fu pursed his lips slightly, as if it wasn't as good as the previous poem?
Sure enough, good words often come to mind in a flash.
"Suddenly I see the green of willows by the roadside, and I regret having urged my husband to seek fame and fortune."
A strong sense of melancholy and sorrow emanates from the young woman, as if a real young woman were standing opposite you, gazing at you with a sorrowful expression.
Uncle Fu seemed stunned.
"Hey bro, pull up the paper."
"Oops..."
That's when it dawned on me, this guy...
According to his book "Appreciation of Poetry", isn't this just a poem of lamentation from a woman in her boudoir?
They were looking at him like he was a monster. No wonder this guy was asking if they should hold back.
Bizarre and absurd ideas suddenly popped into his head: No way... no way, this guy plans to finish writing it all in one go? That's too brutal...
I swallowed silently, my eyes slightly narrowed. I like it, hehe.
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