There is a gourd hanging on his waist, which contains a pot of turbid wine. It is bitter and hard to enter the throat, but there is a hint of subtle sweetness hidden in it, just like his experience. There is a broken sword in his sleeve, the sword is covered with green rust, broken like his state of mind, but under the rust is a sharpness that cannot be concealed, just like his eyes. The horses are running late on the ancient road, and the jackdaws are neighing at the old locust trees. The autumn wind is more desolate, and some people are no longer what they were when they were young.
