Chapter 67 For stumps

Plum blossoms, you withered branches, It's the sorrow you can't tell! After this shower of rain tonight, I close the window and part with you again. But I fantasize about the night comforting your sorrow, The last quarter moon shines on you, the most sympathetic, I fell asleep, my poem records your tenderness, You might as well put the buds at ease to make shade.