The silk is softly tied to the spring pavilion, and the flakes are lightly stained on the embroidered curtains.
Willow silk and elm pods are very beautiful, no matter how many peaches and plums are floating in the air.
Peach and plum will be back next year, but who will be in your room next year?
The nest is already built in March, but the swallows are too merciless.
The next year's flowers can be pecked at, but the nest is empty.
Three hundred and sixty days a year, the winds and frosts and swords are forced on us,
How long can we be bright and beautiful,
and how long will it take for us to find our way around?
Flower blossoms are easy to see and hard to find,
Leaning alone on the flower hoe, tears were spilled, spilled on the empty branches to see the blood marks.
The azalea is silent at dusk, and the hoe returns to cover the door.
The green lamp shines on the wall, and the cold rain knocks on the window, but the blanket is not yet warm.
Blame on you, half pitying and half annoying the spring:
Pitying the spring is suddenly annoying, and there are no words to go without hearing.
Last night there was a sad song outside the court, I know it was the soul of the flower and the soul of the bird?
The soul of the flower and the soul of the bird are always hard to stay, the bird has no words and the flower is ashamed of itself.
I wish I had wings under my arms to fly with the flowers to the end of the sky.
At the end of the sky, where is the fragrant hill?
If I can't find a bag to hold all my beautiful bones, I can hide them in a shovelful of earth.
The quality of the original clean and also clean to go, strong in the dirt in the ditch.
When you die, you will be buried, but I don't know when you will die.
When you bury a flower, you'll be laughed at, but when you do, you'll know who you're burying.
Watch the flowers fall in the spring, when your face will die of old age.
Once the spring is over, the flowers will fall and the people will die.