The cicadas are chilling, it’s late in the pavilion, and the showers are beginning to stop.

You can see butterflies deeply through the flowers, and dragonflies fly in the water.

The willows in the garden have been singing for a long time, and the cicadas are frightened in response.

The body is torture to the soul; it is hell, fate, burden, thick chains, and unbearable punishment.

The flowing sound echoes around the bushes and echoes throughout the high tower.

The moth died on the lamp.

The high cicada has a distant rhyme, and the lush trees have lingering sound.

Butterflies fly over the wall, but they suspect that spring is in the next door.

The leaves are singing in the morning, the branches are noisy at sunset, and the strings are suddenly cut off, and the pipes are heard to be uneven.

The body is the conduit through which we receive all aid and power from the material world.

The body is just a clepsydra, containing grains of sand for timing, and the clepsydra itself will eventually become grains of sand.

Flies that are greedy for honey will drown in the honey.

The spring flows quietly, the music of the piano comes and goes, and the long wind keeps cutting, still among the branches.

The cicadas mourn without leaving a sound, and the wild geese sing in the sky.

Sometimes you can see them wildly following catkins, but where can you find them dancing into pear blossoms?