After parting ways, the two places missed each other.
It was only March and April, but who knew that in five or six years, I had no intention of playing the lyre, no letter to pass on the eight-line script, and the nine-stringed poem Broken from the middle, the gaze of the ten-mile long pavilion is longing to be penetrated, with hundreds of lovesickness, thousands of thoughts, and all kinds of helplessness to complain. There are thousands of words to say, and I am bored by ten columns. I climb high to see the geese on the ninth day of the month. The moon is full during the Mid-Autumn Festival in August and people are not round. In July and a half, I burn incense and send candles to ask the sky. In the dog days of June, when everyone shakes their fans, I feel chilled. In May, the pomegranates were like fire, but the cold rain watered the flowers. In April, the loquats were not yet yellow, and I wanted to look in the mirror and my mind was confused. In March, the peach blossoms turned with the water, and in February, the kite string broke, ugh! Lang, Lang, I wish you would be a girl and I would be a boy in the next life.