On the stringless harp, I draw pictures of boats returning, and in the empty space of calligraphy and ink, the wild geese come back. I hate singing about old friends who are thousands of miles away and can no longer be with me.
The sound of horses is urging us, and the solitary quilts are facing each other. I am so hurt that I can't sleep, leaving only the green tomb facing the darkness.
At night, I lean against the painting railing, surrounded by dust, and quietly stand in the deep courtyard without tears.
Missing you at the full moon and sighing, the brightness diminishes every night
Jiangnan looks tired and haggard, yellow reeds and bitter bamboos are blown by the wind and snow
White clothes and sleeves, silently thinking of recruiting people in Jibei
My heart is gray with you, but I haven't held hands yet, and my song is falling into the river, and the snow is scattered charmingly.