(Yin Mingxi)
Seven-syllable/seven-syllable metrical poem
The thistle gate is thousands of miles away, and the alarm sounds like riding a clear night. Together, we get a glimpse of Qinghai month, and the whip is the wind of Montenegro.
Winter uniforms are still thin, and the lonely city is empty. The South China lost all its ten years, and the general who prevented the autumn postponed his work.