"After one farewell, two places are in suspense
I just said it was March or April, five or six years have passed.
The lyre cannot be played without intention; the eight-line script cannot be passed down
Nine links, folded in the middle, a long pavilion for ten miles, you can look through it
Hundreds of thoughts, thousands of thoughts, all kinds of helpless complaints, thousands of words that can't be finished
I lean on the railing for ten times when I am bored, and climb up to see the lonely geese again and again.
In the Mid-Autumn Festival in August, the moon is not full, and in the middle of July, burn incense and hold candles to ask the sky
In the dog days of June, everyone shakes fans and I feel chilly
In May, pomegranates are like fire, but they are watered by bursts of cold rain.
In April, the loquats are not yet yellow, and I want to look in the mirror and feel confused
In a hurry, the peach blossoms in March turn with the water
Wandering, the kite broke in February
Lang, Lang, I wish that in the next life you would be a girl and I would be a boy."