It was Du Fu's "Ascending": The wind is strong, the sky is high, the apes howl, the white birds fly back to the clear sand of the mournful island. Endless trees fall and the endless Yangtze River rolls down. I'm always a guest in autumn, sad for thousands of miles. I've been sick for a hundred years, and I'm alone on the stage. I'm in trouble, bitter resentment, frosty hair, downcast hair, I've just stopped drinking. In the desolate tomb, a pile of ghosts returned to their hometown.