. . . Huaxin Carrot, do you want it? . .
The falling red clouds, the withered red leaves, and the solitary shadows in the clear pond.
Dream of the Zhu Pavilion, with a purple mirror, a few dots of vermilion, and a few layers of resentment and sorrow.
Counting yellow leaves, infatuation can be eliminated; exploring red flowers, old hatred is reborn.
How can I be drunk? The fresh frost blows at night, my crimson lips are slightly indistinct, and my tears flow from the flowers.
The waning moon is full again, the autumn evening is icy and windy, the cold and thin clothes are cool, and the white face vows to never leave.
February yellow flowers are picked up, a little joyful, a little thought, but desolate in my heart.
This is a work that is rising, and I don't mean to be precise. Please don't criticize the bad things!
