The chilling cicada is miserable. Facing Changting at night, the showers have begun to subside. There is no trace of drinking in the capital tent, and the orchid boat urges you to stay in the place of nostalgia.
Holding hands and looking into tearful eyes, they were speechless and choked. Thoughts go by, thousands of miles of mist, the dusk is heavy and the sky is vast.
Passion has hurt parting since ancient times. Even more embarrassing and neglected Qingqiu Festival. Where will I wake up from my drunkenness tonight? On the bank of willows, with the dawn wind and the waning moon.
This passing year should be a time of good times and good scenery. Even if there are thousands of customs, who can tell them?