While there are still things to say, I hastily picked them up. The stories I want to say are hung lazily on the branches of wintersweet, covered with snow. Miaoyu collects the snow and seals it in an altar for Daiyu, who is smart in ice and snow, to eat. She blames her for not knowing the taste. What kind of taste can it have? The author is huffing and puffing independently in the cold wind, picking red plums and white snow, and weighing the portions in the pot. No more, no less, no more, no less, the smoke of tea is invisible, and the noise of silk and bamboo is far away. I will put a bowl of snow-stewed red dates and white fungus soup on your desk. Guests come from afar, drink it while it's hot to restore your vitality. Don't be too disgusted with your teeth!
Intention: Life is too long if you don't do anything, and too short if you want to do something.