The desert is full of flying sand, the old land of the western frontier, the solitary smoke does not slant.
On a moonlit night, there is frost, and in the misty depths, there are new buds on the trees.
The beauty is brushing the flowers with her delicate hands. When she wakes up from her dream, there are crows flying on the broken wall.
Over the years, my face has become white and my hair has turned white, and my dreams have ended.