Poetry is very good.

There are no birds in the mountains, but there are no sights.

Look at the sun, although it is dazzling, it is only near dusk.

Your lyre is like a singing voice, listening to the cold.

Wildfire never completely devoured them, but they got tall again in the spring breeze.

Bringing a separated heart, the (quiet) lovesickness begins at dusk.

I don't know where autumn frost looks for mirrors (scenery).

I never get tired of seeing it, only Jingting Mountain.

And heaven remains our neighbourhood, Jiang Qingyue was born in Beijing.