I recall drinking on the Wuqiao Bridge in the past. Most of the people sitting in the middle were heroes. The long ditch is silent as the moon goes by, and in the sparse shadows of apricot blossoms, I play the flute until dawn.
More than twenty years have been like a dream, although this body is in shock. I leisurely climbed up to the small pavilion to see the new weather, and saw many things happened in ancient and modern times. The fisherman sang the third watch.
This is a memory that has been forgotten. Who will wake it up?
Listen, the snow is falling at midnight...