In the inn, he was imbued with thoughts of the journey
the most difficult thing was his wine emotion was long
the passenger in the river tower
to blow plum blossoms, flute lamenting
With thick clouds he worried about the eternal night
but he still could find his own distant poetry dream
with a broken willow branch
he sang to look at the tide of the sea
Lingering lonely and the small path was sparse
bright moon was sentimental and dust shadow emerged
ten thousands of miles of the blue clouds and poems were floating
Sitting alone in the secluded and restful bamboo grove
the autumn wind was silent and his soul was sorrowful
a thousand piles of the blue waves and his heart flower were surging