Little do they know that time flies like a galloping horse, and days and nights pass like falling petals on flowing water. On the cold lamp, pear blossoms fall in the cool rain. I long to buy osmanthus blossoms and share wine, but it will never be the same as my youthful days. If the spring breeze has any pity for the flowers, could it grant me back my youth? Dear friends: Flowers may bloom again, but youth never returns. So the moon is still the same moon, but youth is no longer the youth it once was. I raise my eyes to brew wine with pine pollen, the green mountains remain the same, but no one sees the hidden sorrow behind my actions in the east wind—it's nothing but the refusal to marry spring, now wronged by the autumn wind. Year after year, the flowers are similar, but year after year, the people are different!