Weeds are boundless and poplars are rustling.
In mid-September, severe frost sent me out of the outer suburbs.
No one lives on all sides, and the high graves wither.
The horse cries to the sky, and the wind is depressed.
It's not a thousand years since the secluded room was closed.
The Millennium has passed, and the sages are helpless!
Always send people away and return to their homes.
Relatives or sorrows, others have also sung.
What's the way to die? I'm on the same mountain.