In the dream, we held hands in the courtyard, chatting and laughing while splashing ink on the scroll.
Now and in the past, I have been leaning against the moon for a long time, looking out at the rain and mist, as if water was flowing in a dream.
Across the flowers lies the crimson moon, and the paper is covered in red.
The jade curtain is not rolled up, and the shadows are desolate. I sigh in vain for the past, only to sigh.