Outside the pavilion, by the ancient road, the grass is blue.

The evening breeze blows the flute, and the sunset is beyond the mountain.

The horizon, the horizon, intimate friends are half scattered.

Life is once in a blue moon, only parting.

Outside the pavilion, by the ancient road, the grass is blue.

When will you return this? Don't hesitate to come.

The horizon, the horizon, intimate friends are half scattered.

A pot of turbid water spilled all over the floor. I really didn't see anything about teachers and students in Meng Han tonight. It's more in line with parting poems ...-You-