The moon in Chang'an is a silver glow that has been soaked in thousands of years of wind and frost. It hangs on the eaves of Zhuque Street, shines on the wave center of Qujiang Pond, and also diffuses into the window lattice of ordinary alleys, coating the city's prosperity and loneliness with a hazy veil. In this moonlight, a wisp of pipa sound came through the night. It was not like the gentleness of Jiangnan silk and bamboo, nor the vigorousness of Saibei Hujia. It was a bit stagnant and a bit quiet, like a cold spring washing stones, like a lone wild goose wailing, flowing slowly in the silent night sky.
