The chrysanthemums on the threshold are worried about the mist orchid weeping dew, the curtain is light and cold, and the swallows fly away. The bright moon does not understand the bitterness of separation and hatred, and its slant light penetrates Zhuhu at dawn. Last night, the west wind withered the green trees. I went up to the high building alone and looked at the end of the world. I wanted to send colorful notes and rulers. The mountains are long and the rivers are wide. I know where it is.
We are never the masters of our own will, neither in the past nor now. You have the responsibility of history, but I accidentally coveted the passerby of this history. In the autumn of several seasons, the flowers bloom and fade, where will we go?