The crescent moon shines on the sparse sycamore trees; it's late at night and people are quiet, and the water in the clepsydra has already dripped out. Who has seen Qingcheng walking around alone, like an ethereal figure like a solitary goose in the sky.
In the dark night, it was suddenly frightened, flew up suddenly, and turned back frequently, but no one always understood the infinite hatred in its heart. It kept wandering among the cold branches, but refused to perch on any tree. In the end, it could only land lonely on the cold sandbank.