Autumn has been lonely for all eternity, and no one talks about the past spring. The emotion is unenviable in ancient and modern times, and the outcome has already been determined by heaven.
Loneliness in late spring hurts the scenery, and the bronze mirror softens the style.
A stroke of green silk turns into dusk snow, and the years are as frightening as a sword.
Where can I send my longing for lovesickness? The waning moon cries out sadly.
The morning dream was hesitant and imitated, and I suddenly woke up with tears on my temples.
There is no need to sweep the empty curtains on the couch, and the clouds and clothes are rich and brocade, so lonely and lonely.
The broken string will never be renewed, who looks back on duckweed...