Autumn willow branches white mist smoke,
The Eight Gong Treatise is written in the mountains and rivers.
Man looks at himself in middle age,
Also borrowed the slanting sun to comfort the curtain year.
The sound of the piano has rhymes and I am speechless,
Youth is no longer inevitable.
Looking for a film time to borrow a little scenery,
In his spare time, he offers a clumsy article.