"The Burial Flower Song"
The flowers on the pavilion are flying all over the sky, and the red silk fragrance is gone. Who can pity it? The soft hairspring is tied to the floating spring pavilion, and the fallen catkins lightly touch the embroidered curtain.
The daughter in the boudoir cherishes the twilight of spring, full of sorrow and nowhere to complain; she hoe the flowers out of the embroidered curtain, and endures stepping on the fallen flowers to come and go.
Willow silk and elm pods are blooming all by themselves, regardless of peach blossoms and plum blossoms. If peaches and plums bloom again next year, who will be in my boudoir next year?
In March, the fragrant nest is first built, the swallows in the beams are so ruthless! Although you can peck at the gray hair next year, you won't be able to enjoy it even if you leave the nest empty!
Three hundred and sixty days a year, the wind, the sword, the frost, the sword force each other; how long can the bright and fresh beauty last, and it is difficult to find it once it is wandering.
Flowers are easy to see when they bloom but hard to find when they fall. I worry about killing the flower buryer in front of the steps. I hoe the flowers alone and secretly shed my tears. I can see traces of blood on the empty branches.
The cuckoo is speechless. It is dusk, and the hoe returns to cover the heavy door; the green lantern shines on the wall, and the man is sleeping for the first time, while the cold rain knocks on the window and the quilt is not warm.
Strange things about Nong are doubly distressing, half pity for spring and half annoyance for spring; pity for spring comes and goes, anger and displeasure, and when it comes, there is nothing to say but not to hear.
Last night a tragic song was played outside the court, did you know it was the soul of flowers and birds? The soul of a flower is hard to retain as the soul of a bird, the bird is speechless and the flower is ashamed;
May I have wings this day and fly with the flowers to the end of the sky. The end of the world! Where is the fragrant hill?
It is not like a brocade bag to collect the beautiful bones, but a cup of pure soil to cover the wind; the essence comes and goes clean, which is better than the filth sinking into the ditch.
If you die now, you will be buried. Who knows when you will be buried? People who bury flowers today are laughing like idiots, but who do you know who they will bury next year?
Just look at the flowers that are left in the spring and gradually fall, which is the time when the beauties die of old age; once the spring is gone, the beauties are old and the flowers fall and people die without knowing it!
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It has been modified, but the scale is not very big^^