"Ode to the Burial of Flowers"

When the flowers wither, the flowers fly all over the sky, and who can pity the red and fragrant flowers.

The hairspring is soft and thin floating on the spring pavilion, and the fallen catkins lightly stick to the embroidered window.

The daughter in the boudoir cherishes the twilight of spring, full of sorrow and nowhere to go.

Peel the flowers out of the embroidery window with your hands, and bear to step on the fallen flowers back and forth.

The willow silk and elm pods are fragrant, but the peach blossoms and Li Fei are not concerned.

The peaches and plums will bloom again next year, and I will know who will be in my boudoir next year.

In March, the fragrant nest is first built, and the swallows in the beams are too ruthless.

Although the flowers can be pecked next year, the nest will be empty when people leave.

Three hundred and sixty days a year, the wind, the sword, the frost and the sword force each other.

How long can the bright and fresh beauty last? It is hard to find it once it is wandering.

The flowers are easy to see when they are in bloom but hard to find when they are gone. The flowers are buried in sorrow in front of the steps.

I secretly shed tears while hoeing flowers alone, and sprinkled the empty branches with traces of blood.

The cuckoo is speechless at dusk, and the hoe returns to cover the heavy door.

The green lantern shines on the wall, and the person is sleeping for the first time, while the cold rain hits the window and the quilt is not yet warm.

Kui Nong’s troubles are doubly distressing, half pity for spring and half annoyed for spring.

The pity for the spring comes and goes suddenly, and the anger goes away, and when it comes, there is no words to say but not heard.

Last night a sad song was heard outside the pavilion, I knew it was the soul of a flower or a bird.

The soul of a flower is hard to retain as the soul of a bird. The bird is speechless and the flower is ashamed.

May I have wings this day and fly with the flowers to the end of the sky.

Where is the fragrant hill at the end of the sky?

It is not like a brocade bag to collect its bones, but a piece of pure earth to cover the wind.

The essence comes and goes clean again, and does not fall into the ditch.

You have died and been buried. I don’t know when I will be buried.

The person who buries flowers today laughs like crazy, but I don’t know who he will bury next year.

Look at the spring flowers gradually falling, it is the time when the beauty dies of old age.

Once the spring is over, the beauty will grow old, and the flowers will fall and people will die.