The wind is blowing, I am living alone in a solitary house, the weather is chilly and cold, and I am complaining about the flute.
The random flowers have fallen, but the dark fragrance still remains, like a whisper.
In the withered place, I still hate you, but how desolate it is, the lonely sycamore rain.
The waning moon is solitary, its infatuation is gone, and it is as cold as ice.