If spring doesn't come

If spring does not come, and you do not come, I will not

Be intoxicated by the fragrance of a flower

Nor would I have been awakened by the sunshine of Chang'an.

I wouldn't have walked in Lao Cui's poem one more time.

I would have to tell the secret that I have been hiding for years.

If you hadn't come, the peach blossoms might not have been in full bloom.

I wouldn't have been pulled by the gentle wind, and I would have been in trouble.

My tormented heart would not have blossomed desperately in the wind.

If I hadn't looked up to see you and down to see the peach blossoms.

How could I have let myself become six-fold.

If I didn't see New York in the morning and New York in the evening

How can I write my poems in a wolfish manner?

I don't want to say anything else, since my mind has long been free of distractions.

The most important thing is that the wind will not be able to help.

Just live plainly, it won't be too far from one flower to another.

How many of their joys and departures are put into poems by me.

How many were barely uttered by me.

How many springs are going to come and go between our talk and laughter.

How many flowers, their joy, to be greater than the future of a poem.