A poem about a man who can betray his relatives and friends for money.

Today last year, in this door, people's faces and peaches set each other off. People don't know where to go, but the peach blossoms are still smiling in the spring breeze.

Last January, the flower market was full of lights, and the willow shoots were full of moons. After dusk, in January this year, the moon light was still there, and no one was seen last year, and tears wet the sleeves of the spring shirt.

Don't ask the poor in downtown, the rich have distant relatives in the mountains.

I turn my heart to the bright moon, which shines on the ditch.