Please talk about the sadness of thinking about him so much just after separation.

The sound of the waves is still crossing the blue boat, the sea is limited, and acacia is not good. The moon is full in the west building, still lonely. Acacia is far away, the string is broken, but no one knows. Who reads the west wind alone and gambles away the fragrance of tea? At the time, it was just unusual. Life is gentle, how much is lovesickness? How sad is it to read a book of poems and face the moon? Butterfly dances all over the world, broken bridges and flying flowers, that dusty dream, whose youth has passed away?