The closer I get to my hometown, the more timid I am, afraid to inquire about people from home. It's only seven days since spring, and I've been away from home for two years.
For no reason, I crossed the mulberry river, but I hope that Bingzhou is my hometown. Yu Di's dark flying sound scattered into the spring breeze in Los Angeles.
But I looked home, and the twilight was getting thicker. The river is shrouded in mist, which brings people deep melancholy. Sad songs can be used as tears, and distant looks can be used as angelica.
The longer they are apart, the wider they become and the thinner they become. Only in front of Jinghu Lake, the spring breeze does not change the waves of the past.
The sadness of parting is like weeds in spring, which go further and further. It's easier to see when it's not. Running water is gone, and spring is gone.
How can we turn this body into tens of millions, scattered to the heads of state's homes to see! It is almost as difficult for friends to meet each other as the stars in the morning and evening.
Tomorrow I will climb to the top of the mountain and look north at my hometown, or I can see the red berries on the top of the mountain. I don't know where the bleak reed flute blows and I look at my hometown all night.