Chapter 57 sick poet (1)

The poet is sick—the mood of the poet is more suitable for poetry, but the poet cannot write.The shadow of the chrysanthemum is on the ground, and the rattan chair is backed by the sun.The book fell on the ground, I didn't want to pick it up, I just let it blow in the breeze.The windows are open, the curtains are closed, people are boring, only: the books are old, the flowers are new.What is reflected in the mirror is a thin and thin Pang'er; what is in his hand is a heavy pen.The condensed poetry is full of freshness; the haggard poet is happy.The poet is ill—the mood of the poet is more suitable for poetry, but the poet cannot write!

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