The flowers are withered and the flowers are flying all over the sky. Who can pity the flowers when their fragrance fades away? The spring pavilion is tied with soft gossamers, and the fallen catkins lightly touch the embroidered curtains. Three hundred and sixty days a year, the wind, frost and sword force each other. How long can the bright and fresh flowers last? It is hard to find them once they are wandering. The flowers are easy to see and hard to find, and the sadness in front of the steps buries the flowers. Leaning alone on the flower hoe, I secretly shed my tears, and sprinkle the empty branches with traces of blood. May the slaves grow wings and fly with the flowers to the end of the sky. Where is the fragrant hill at the end of the sky! It is not like collecting beautiful bones in a brocade bag, but a cup of pure soil covers the wind. The essence comes and goes clean, which is better than being trapped in the ditch. If you die now, you will be buried, and you don't know when you will be buried. The person who buries flowers today is laughing and crazy. Who is he buried in that year? It's the time when a beauty dies. Once the spring is over, the beauty dies, the flowers fall and people die.