Seven Words: Nostalgic for the Zhongyuan Festival for consecutive years

Eight directions of smoke burst forth, illuminating the trance of daylight.

The paper ashes are fragrant and thick.

Every year, every household mourns the old.

The pursuit of death is a thousand threads, and the sleeves of the wet shirt are wet with tears.

The vague curls are wild and melt with the nine filth.

The sound and appearance are condensed, and the mountains and rivers are sad.