Raising an eyebrow at the collection of what the fuck did you just spill, Cao Pi thankfully refrains from snarking further. This isn't the time for it, and he gets that Rosinante is probably feeling similar to the way he does so why make it worse? He turns a shoulder back toward the grave, looking down, even though he knows precisely what he wrote.

"Peach blossoms fall like snow," he says in a low tone. If he had time to flesh it out into a full poem, it would probably be about the way the snow falling on his face in the vision put him in mind of peach blossoms wilting and dropping to the ground as they die. The metaphor is there, he doesn't need to go into it. Instead, he offers, "There are peaches and plums in the garden of my estate in Xuchang. Beautiful, yet fleeting."