I go up to the small building alone with the setting sun on my back, whose jade flute sounds so quiet. A row of white geese is far away in the sky at dusk, and the ground is covered with yellow flowers.
In the preface of the Jing Festival, I sigh about the ups and downs, and the flowers are like dream water flowing eastward. Things in the world are depressing, so don't ask Hengtang about your old travels.