The rolling Yangtze River flows eastward, and the waves wash away the heroes. Right and wrong, success or failure, turn around in vain. The green hills are still there, and the sunset turns red several times.
That day the hero was bleeding and his brows were on the branches. Inside and outside the capital, corpses of hungry people lay everywhere. Sigh that the world of mortals is rolling like a stream, the heroes of all ages are reduced to skeletons when they die in battle, and their deeds are turned into loess in the end! I buried my collarbone in mud under the spring, and I sent my head full of frost in the world.
