The rime is cold in January, the snow is heard in winter, and the eyebrows are furrowed.
The kite flies in February, and the thin thread just breaks my thoughts.
In March, the loquats are yellow, the faith is vague, and the tears are stained with tears.
Drawing peonies in April is so sad that I can see the road to the end of the world.
In May, the pomegranate flowers are blooming, drinking alone, staying in an empty room in loneliness.
It’s a dog day in June, embroidering purses, and it rains from time to time.
On the bank of the river in the middle of July, lotus lanterns hold candles and ask the sky.
During the Mid-Autumn Festival in August, Chang'e complained that the moon was full and people were not.
When I climbed to a high place in September, I felt sorry for the lonely goose, and I didn’t realize that the tears were shallow.
October is sad and lonely, autumn is bleak, and the wind blows withered leaves.
In November in Luoyang, all the flowers are in ruins. I wonder when you will return.
In December in Chang'an, tears filled my eyes, and the white silk hanging in the room.
Tag: poetry