Chai Men's birds are noisy, and thousands of miles away.
My wife blames me, and I'm still crying.
The chaos of the world is drifting, and it is accidental to survive.
Neighbors are all over the wall, sighing.
Midnight is more like a candle, relatively dreamy.
When you are old and forced to drag out an ignoble existence, it is not so fun to return to China.
Joule never leaves her knees, afraid that I will go back.
Looking back, I like to chase the cold, so I walk around the trees by the pool.
The north wind is strong, and things are fried.
Thanks to the bumper harvest, I feel uncomfortable in bed.
It's enough to think about it now, and use it to comfort dying people.
The chickens are crowing and the guests are beating.
Drive the chicken to the tree, and only then can you hear the sound of chopping wood.
Four or five elders asked me about my long trip.
Every hand is lifted, and mud and sand are falling.
Bitter wine tastes thin, and the millet field is not cultivated.
Because the soldiers and revolutionaries didn't stop, the children made an expedition to the east.
Please sing an old song for your father and feel sorry for your hardships.
After singing, I sighed and cried.