In mid-September, severe frost sent me out of the outer suburbs.
No one lives on all sides, and the high grave is a banana.
The horse crows for the sky, and the wind is depressed.
It's not a thousand years since the secluded room was closed.
A thousand years later, there is nothing the wise can do.
People who always send each other off have all gone home.
Relatives or sorrows, others have also sung.
What's the way to die? It's still that mountain.
Tao Yuanming