Cherish the spring, spring is gone, what time does it rain, the yellow flowers are piled up all over the ground, haggard and damaged, who is worthy of picking them now? Awakening from alcohol breaks the spring slumber, and the dream can no longer be returned. The parasol trees have fallen, but the autumn colors are still there, and I am still lonely. I am alone with deep sorrow and no good dreams. The night is like a lantern, and I can't laugh when I am drunk and arranging flowers. The poor man is like spring, and he loves and cherishes it. I don't know how long he will keep it from now on.