Flower pavilions are flying all over the sky, who pity the red incense? The hair is soft and floating in the spring pavilion, and the falling wool touches the embroidered curtain.
The daughter in the boudoir cherishes the spring dusk and is full of nowhere to complain; Hoe out the embroidered curtain with your hands and endure falling flowers again and again.
Willow pods come from wheat straw, regardless of peach floating and Li Fei; Peach and plum will be released next year. Who will be in the boudoir next year?
When the fragrant nest was first built in March, Liang Jianyan was so heartless! Although you can peck flowers and hairs next year, it is impossible for people to go to the empty nest!
360 days a year, the wind and sword are pressing; When will it shine? Once you drift, it's hard to find.
Bloom is easy to see but hard to find, and he is worried about killing the flower burying man in front of the steps; Stealing flowers and hoes and crying alone, watching the blood stains on the branches in the sky.
The cuckoo was silent at dusk, and the lotus hoe returned to cover the heavy door; When the blue light shone on the wall, people began to sleep, but the window was not warm.
Blame the farmer's double depression, half pity and half trouble; The flowing spring suddenly moves towards trouble and even silence.
Last night, a sad song was played outside the court. Do you know it is a flower soul and a bird soul? The bird's soul is always hard to stay, and the bird is ashamed of itself.
May Nong have wings this day and fly to the end of the day with flowers. The day is over! Where is Xiangshan?
There is no trick, a cup of pure land protects the wind; It's better to be clean than trapped in a ditch.
I am going to die and be buried, but I don't know when Nong will die. The man who buried the flowers is laughing today, but who did he know when he buried them?
Just watch the spring flowers gradually fall, it is the time when the beauty dies of old age; No sad songs for me, I don't know what happened!
Flowers have withered and withered, and the wind has blown them flying all over the sky. The bright red color has faded and the umami flavor has disappeared. Who sympathizes with it? Soft spider silk seems to be broken, floating between pavilions in spring, and catkins flying all over the sky come with the wind, covering the rusty flower curtain. The girl in the boudoir, facing the last spring scenery, is so sorry, full of melancholy, and there is nowhere to put her sadness. Holding this flower hoe in his hand, he opened the curtains and walked into the garden. The flowers in the garden fell all over the floor. How can I bear to walk around them? Willows with clear signs and shallow pods only show off their wheat straw, regardless of the fall of peach blossoms and the flight of plum blossoms. When the spring returns next year, the peach and plum trees will bloom again, but who will be left in the boudoir next year? In March of the Spring Festival, swallows have picked flowers, and the nest of flowers has been padded. Swallow on the beam, you are too heartless to treat flowers. Although you can pick flowers and peck grass next year, how can you think that the owner of the house is dead, the nest is down and the beams are empty?
There are 360 days in a year. What are the days like? The cold wind like a knife, the frost like a sword, mercilessly ravage the flowers, how long can the bright spring flowers last? Once it's gone, there's nowhere to find it. It's easy to see when I bloom. Once you drop it, it's hard to find it. Standing in front of the steps, I was full of worries, but I was worried about the man who buried the flowers. He held the hoe tightly in his hand and wept secretly. The empty branches seemed to be stained with blood.
The cuckoo cries her blood and tears in obscurity, and the miserable dusk is coming. I went home with a flower hoe and closed the boudoir door. The cold light shone on the empty wall, and people just fell asleep. The spring rain knocked on the window, and the bedding on the bed was still cold. People wonder what makes me so sad today, partly because I cherish the beautiful spring scenery and partly because I am angry at the hasty departure of spring scenery. Come without saying a word, go without saying a word. I don't know where I heard the sad song last night. I don't know whether it is the soul of a flower or the spirit of a bird, but neither the soul of a flower nor the spirit of a bird can be preserved. Ask birds, birds don't talk, ask flowers, flowers bow their heads and be shy.
I hope I can grow a pair of wings from now on and fly to the end of the sky with flying flowers. But even if you fly to the end of the sky, will there be a mound of buried flowers? It is better to put away the delicate bones of flowers with bright sachets and bury your peerless romance with clean hedges. Originally, you were born clean and died clean according to your noble figure, so as not to get a little dirty and be abandoned in a dirty river ditch.
Flowers! I'll bury you when you die today. Who knows when I will die suddenly? I buried the flowers that fell on the ground today, and people laughed at me for being stupid. But when I die, who will bury me? Look at the withered spring scenery. Flowers are falling from the branches. That's when the girls in the boudoir get old and die. Once spring goes and spring comes, the girl becomes an old lady, and the flowers fall and people die, and the flowers are strangers.