The chilling cicadas are mournful, and it's late to the pavilion. The showers have begun to subside, and there is no trace of drinking in the tents of the capital. Fang is nostalgic, and the orchid boat is urging it to go.
Holding hands and looking into tearful eyes, they were speechless and choked. The thought goes away, thousands of miles of smoke waves, the dusk is heavy and the sky is vast.
Since ancient times, sentimental feelings have hurt parting, and even more embarrassingly, they have left the Qingqiu Festival in the cold. Where can I wake up tonight? On the bank of willows, with the waning moon in the morning breeze.
After so many years, it should be a good time and good scenery. Even though there are thousands of customs, who can I tell them to?