英译：
Silence reigns, echoing loneliness in the empty and slow west wing. Gazing upon the sky, only a lone curve resembling a hook offers companionship. Lowering one's head, buttonwoods stand isolated and desolate in the courtyard, shrouded by the cold and desolate aura of autumn. The continual sound of cutting blades echoes incessantly, yet its rationale remains unclear, leaving one distressed and reminded of national subjugation. Melancholy persists and envelops the heart, an ineffable form of pain.