I take advantage of the green light to write Chu ci, and I hate the fragrance, powder and black parting. No one can see you without pity and hatred, and you will cry a thousand cigarettes.
There are two or three stems in the stone eye of Jiaquan, and the roots of the yin are purple. This year, on the spring sand of the canal, the flute is brand-new and green as jade.
Old bamboo shoots provoke Yun Lan, while Maoling lies in poverty. The wind blows thousands of acres to meet the rain, and the bird weighs one branch and enters the wine.
Translation:
After the shell of bamboo shoots falls off, Hsinchu grows quickly, like cutting jasper with a knife; You see, those strong big bamboo shoots are extraordinary materials.
They will suddenly grow into a millipede overnight, stay away from the mud in the bamboo garden, go straight into the sky and stand in the sky.
Scrape the green husk off the bamboo and write my poems like Chu Ci. The white powder is bright and fragrant, leaving lines of black handwriting.
Hsinchu is ruthless but full of sorrow and hatred. Who can see it? Dew drops like fog, and tears fall on a thousand branches.
There are two or three bamboos growing in the spring gap in my yard. When I saw them on the country road in the morning, the bamboo roots were already above the ground, and many new buds had just emerged.
This year, on the sandy shore near the spring inlet, Hsinchu will grow tall and straight like a sapphire.
Although the old bamboo is old, it is still tall and straight, and the pen tip can brush clouds. I am not very old, but I can only be as poor as Sima Xiangru when I lived in Maoling.
The wind blows bamboo, which sounds like rain; When it is calm and the scenery is beautiful, a bird perches on a branch, but its scenery can be reflected in the bottle.