琴琴以无弦为最高。一张机,挑起春愁如雨。静立于窗前,陌上花开,等待抚琴之人的再度归来。琴声如诉。命若琴弦。眼前的浮生太黑,耳边的涛声太响。云影之下,夕阳泊在指间。莲花不及你眉眼。多少曲子,都成为了过眼云烟。任何一种交谈方式,都不如你十指翻 Qinqin with no strings for the highest. A machine, stir up spring sadness. Calm standing in the window, the flowers bloom, waiting for the Fuqin return again. The sound of a melody. Like a string. Floating in front of too dark, the sound of the ear too loud. Under the shadow of the clouds, the sunset lies between the fingers. Lotus less than your facial features. How many songs have become superficial. Any kind of conversation, not as good as your fingertips