In the third month, apricot blossoms drift through the misty rain.
With an oil-paper umbrella in hand, peachwood clogs on my feet, a flask of light wine and a little melancholy to spare, I stroll along the peach-blossom path by the stream, pausing now and then.
The peach blossoms along the road are at their loveliest. Rain has washed them, making them all the more vivid. As the shower begins to ease, he finds a peach tree in full bloom. He pays no mind to the rain or the heavy dew, and sits beneath it.
He pours the wine, takes a small sip, and gazes toward the distant mountains, darkened like ink by the rain. Drinking and reciting, he says,
Come on, come on~~~Please continue~~~~But there are a few words, so it's not enough to read.