His green clothes fluttered, he stood leaning on the railing and said: The lonely smoke is straight in the desert, the sun is setting in the long river, what I can't forget is the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, Nalan, I'm afraid no one will play the piano and flute again, Yanran, I'm back.
He buried half of his face in the shadow of the sun and murmured: Time is like a finger of quicksand, the cherries turn red and the bananas turn green. I have waited for ten years, against the odds for ten years, but now I can only look at it from a distance?