Or the love poem that Zhuo Wenjun gave to Sima Xiangru:
After a farewell, the two places are still up in the air, only in March and April, but who knows five or six years. The lyre has no intention to play, the eight lines have no transmission, the nine-line chain has never been broken, and the Shili Pavilion wants to wear it. I can't understand it, I can't understand it, I can only blame Lang. A thousand words can't be finished. I said nine days alone. In August, the Mid-Autumn Festival is crowded with people, and in July, people burn incense and hold candles to ask for heaven. In June, others shook their fans and I felt cold. In May, pomegranates are like fire, and the flowers fall after the rain. April loquat is not yellow, I want to be confused in front of the mirror, and I am anxious. Peach blossoms turn with the water in March. Falling and falling, the kite line was broken in February. Hey! Lang Lang, I hope you are a woman in my next life, and I am A Lang!