My sword has been sheathed for twenty years, all for your peace.
I waved my hand and struck down ten, yet it feels like a dream.
The feast at Nanshan, the beauty of Nanshan: I long for it, but Nanshan is nowhere to be found in my heart.
Wasted years, near madness; only by drawing my sword can I question the world.
You do not see, you do not heed, yet these carefree days of youth are not in vain.
Three thousand stained with blood, I stand atop the clouds, sword in hand.
I stain the skies, I stain the vast firmament; a hundred years cannot match the grandeur of ten thousand ages.
