You are like a bright moon, I am like a fog, and the fog hides with the moon.

You play the piano well and I dance well, but at the end of the song, people are indifferent.

Just because I think, when I look back on you, I miss your dynasty and dusk.

The soul goes with you to the end of the world, and the clothes are getting wider and wider.

Acacia bitter, with whom? I don't know where you are.

I regret that the years are like the morning dew, when will I hug your mud nest?

After thirty-six rounds of bright moon, I will do a dress dance for you.