The dust of the years has been swept away, and I hide in the mist and rain in the fog pavilion, half-covering my poems and books, half-pouring tea. Watching a paper lintel alone, playing an autumn song. The sound of the piano is extremely clear and the music has a long rhyme. At the curve of the carved lantern, the moon gently gathers a wisp of tulle. Under Qian's screen window, in the shadow of the red candle, her long, silky hair sings softly, combing through her long, silky melancholy. The beaded curtain closes the moon, keeping quiet and enjoying the tranquility. Standing in the quietness, tenderness and grace appear in silence. The hustle and bustle of the red city no longer catches my eyes; my thoughts are faint, but they are still in my heart.