The solitary pavilion is deep
On the Wuxin Ridge, the wintersweet blooms, and the clear shadow lingers alone. Sighing the passing of the Chinese years, the willows dragging Hannan, the waning moon on the Yaotai.
Bearing down the Old Testament, the swallows are empty, and the fantasy is thousands of miles away. The cuckoo is so cold that it cannot stand outside the forest, and it cries several times in mourning.
There is such a profound poem
When you are old
Your hair is gray
Napping by the fire
Please take down this book of poetry
Read it quietly
Recall the softness of your eyes in the past
Recall the thick shadows under the long eyelashes
p>How many people have loved you when you were young and happy
Love your beauty
True or false
But only one person loves you The soul of a pilgrim
still loves the sad wrinkles on your aging face