Preface: July, the thirty-seventh year of Heian
Luoyang Ji Pingchu
After a thousand years, Guihe will not know whether he will live or die.
I am like the sunset in the morning, and you are like the dew in the morning.
The yellow hair is hanging down, and Qing'e is waiting for the word boudoir.
Since you came out, I have been feeling depressed.
I want to break off the flowers and branches, but I am afraid that the flowers will break off the branches.
But I sleep at the bottom of the willow, watching the fallen flowers at dusk.
Looking at the blooming flowers, leading to the sad feelings.
The five senses are triggered by sadness, and mediocre people don't know it.
He raised his cup in front of the bottle and chanted, and the beard man rushed to it.
There will never be a separation, no matter how long we will hold hands.
Collecting tears means a long journey, so I put down my pen and say goodbye.