The official travels have no definite trace, and they drift north and south. This year in Bingzhou, I met Hanshi.
The flowers are red and the grass is as green as weaving. A group of birds chirped in the courtyard, chirping loudly day and night.
The flying catkins follow the east wind and stick to several seats lightly. Chunguang and I are both guests.
Spring’s return is already due, but I haven’t returned yet. Not happy with the scenery, I sighed and took a long breath.
What is the meaning of Taixi? I wrote a brush on the wall.