We don't know how good we are when we get together, but we know how sad we are when we are apart. Bamboo shoots and Yiga shine slantingly through ancient Pingzhou. Tonight the desolate wind peels off the trees, tomorrow night the mountains are long and the rivers are far away, and the night after is in another state. When I realize that my home is far away, I can't even think of going back and forth.
Wine can be sold, flowers can be bought, and moons can be kept. I wake up from lovesickness, and the flowers fall at the end of the night. At the bottom of the shadow of sparse plum blossoms in Changji, a flute of purple flies, opposite to the flow of the river. There is no other month, and one month brings a thousand autumns.