The sky is sparse, the night is quiet, and there are few people talking. Last year, when the plum blossoms were thick and the subtle fragrance floated, someone asked. This year, when the flowers are fragrant, the fragrance is still there, but the people have gone. Don't describe lovesickness as pure sorrow, don't mistake infatuated tears to describe the time when you say goodbye. The wind is weak in the morning and the moon is bright on the shore, which still hinders the good times. It's been a year since I left, don't regret it, like the moon in the sky, every day, every year, sometimes you can garden.

Flowers and falling flowers, floating dreams and hatred, who knows the explanation? The word "moon" is written in ink, without writing about the flowers in front of the moon and the moon below. The word "hate" is thin, and the figure is not as warm as last year. The rise and fall of the sky in the mulberry field has nothing to do with the wind and the moon.