I remember when I came to the ancient post station, my whip was tied with snow in front of the building.
Double orange fragrance splashes beauty's hand, half arm cold adds drinker's shoulder.
Suddenly, I saw the wasteland destroying the evening grass, and there was no cold smoke in the air.
The dust is full of deep melancholy, but I hope someone will send me to sleep drunk.
Speak first and then write down.