At first glance, it is two or three miles away, and mist hangs over four or five families.
There are six or seven pavilions and eighty or ninety flowers.
After saying goodbye, we miss each other. Let's say March or April, who knows five or six years. The lyre has no intention to play, the eight lines have no biography, the nine-song chain has never been interrupted, and the Shili Pavilion wants to wear it. I can't figure it out, I can't figure it out, so I have to blame you. A thousand words can't be finished, and you are bored. On the ninth day, you can see the lonely geese, and the full moon in August is not round. In July and a half, candles burn incense and ask for heaven. In the summer of June, everyone shook my heart. Pomegranate is as red as May, but it is watered by cold rain. April loquat is not yellow, and I want to be confused in the mirror. In a hurry, the peach blossoms turn with the water in March; Falling and falling, the kite line was broken in February. Hey, Lang Lang, I can't wait for my next life. You are a woman and I am a man.