Leaning alone against the spring cold and covering the night sky, the clear dew weeps through the baht clothes. The jade whistle blows the dream, the golden hairpin traces the shadow, I regret not carrying it with me.
We have treated each other like a broken red candle, but old things are always vague. The material should be filled with regrets. It will be taught in the middle of the month, and the flower bottom will urge it back.
Conception: