Modern Zhao Ye
My imagination dried up and my arms hung low.
Can't stand the tenderness of spring, I saw a book,
The black cover reminds me of the decay of history.
Every tree in my memory was rustled by the wind;
How futile my work is, my words,
Simple or firm, my life is a real chestnut.
The flame of dawn or dusk I experienced, the roaring sword and palace in my dream.
Has been deposed by other forces, I have withdrawn from the spring,
Back to the last edge, I have to leave the light,
Like a slender bug, I knew something was going to happen.
I'll be in the rotten leaves,
Swearing, crying and excitement