With a few lines of writing, the green cedars are still the same as the smoke and rain, and the neon clothes are forgotten. Old friends in the rivers and lakes sigh and stain their plain clothes with tears. The hazy and cold moon, celadon and clear tea, alluring songs. I am haggard and cold. Time has sickened my heart. The tears are as shallow as rouge. The breeze floats like a dream to the west city, turning around, the glass white wine and the beautiful lady pass by, the youth is stained by dust, the dream recalls Anliang, the southern gardenia is cold? The purple road is not young, the brushstrokes are stained by colored glaze, ink dyes the cherry blossoms, flying in the time alley, the green shirt, the old friend ten miles away, the dream is soaked in the rain, drunk in the green clothes. The clear dust is rustling, the north wind is rising, the moonlight night is dancing, and I am leaving my sorrow and turning the wine into pure and joyful celadon. The falling cherry blossoms are flying, the flowers are falling, the cool dream is quiet, the beautiful woman is smiling and drunk, Chang'an Senyu is in early summer? Why do catkins fly on the street, hold hands and ask about the years, South China, Sheng, the north, hold the clear and shallow fleeting years, quietly admire the flowers and green mountains, not changing the old people, return to the street, the snow falls on the street, and the snow falls in the north. The alley is not summer, the white dew is drinking the dust, the frost is left with ink, the poem is broken, the dawn wind is leaving the willows, the light blue is still young, the cherry blossoms are falling, the light dusk is snowing, the green shirt is recalling the long street and listening to the wind