An ancient poem mourning the dead.

1, now I have to come back from this distant place, and I dismounted next to your lonely grave. The place where I stood was wet with my tears, and the sky was dark with broken clouds. I once played chess with the Prime Minister, and now I want to take the dagger he wants to my master. But I only saw petals falling, and I only heard Suzaku respond.

2. Water has roots in trees, and children never forget their parents. Parents are filial when they are alive, leaving no guilt in the world.

Born in the countryside, poor in bone, old and diligent, sick and dying.

4, I have a lot of cold wind and rain in Xinjiang, and the world is sad and dark. At the beginning of winter, my sixth father passed away, and I was deeply saddened by the great pain.

5, it may be the dust of heaven, and the lead cloud finally makes tears fly. If buried next year, how many pairs of grave sweepers will I have?

6, Zheng Chen's hometown, inserted willow clear. Wen returned to be a guest and missed the old feelings with his neighbors. Burn incense for burial, burn paper for family. It seems that the voice and voice have been cut, but it is still very awkward.

7. On the city, the setting sun painted a corner of mourning, and Shen Yuan was not revived as a pool platform. Under the sad bridge, the spring waves are green, which used to be a stunning photo.

8. I think of my parents during the Qingming Festival and stare at the distance with tears in my eyes. Helpless and unfilial, thousands of miles away, silently wishing parents peace in heaven.

9, the red Luo presses the new hour by hour, and the yarn is tender and dusty. Don't think the material of the cloth is too weak yet. Silk and weft are the best.

10, ask my father to go, and my last wish will be inherited by my son. Call my father to rest in peace, and the spirit will live in the soul forever.