After a farewell, the two places hung up, saying March and April, who knows five or six years! The lyre has no intention to play, the eight lines have no transmission, the nine-line chain has never been broken, and the Shili Pavilion wants to wear it. I thought about it in every possible way, but I was helpless and could only blame Lang. A thousand words, bored, lonely geese on the ninth day, Mid-Autumn Festival in August is not round. In July and a half, I burned incense and held candles to ask the sky. In the dog days of June, everyone shakes my heart. Durian in May is like fire, but it is drenched with cold rain. April loquat is not yellow, and I want to be fascinated by the mirror. Peach blossoms follow the water in March, and kite strings break in February. Hey! Lang Lang, I really hope that you are a woman and I am a man in the next life.
A thin bamboo solves the spring and autumn,
These two wall books are piled as high as a hill.
Three years of cold window, no one asked.
The quartet competed to congratulate on raising funds.
Five or six doesn't mean anything from now on,
Six works of art have been stolen for years.
The seven-foot man is in spring,
Eight kings invite the wind to drift.
The meandering Yellow River should be like this.
100,000 Li road flows downwards.