Drunk and lying in the world of mortals, I see thousands of layers of gauze rising, and the green clothes are all prosperous. The slanting light is like smoke and the setting sun is like blood, and the cold eyes point to the sword for seven kills. Chasing deer in the mountains, gold and iron horses, halberds and halberds, the plain fan was shattered in the hand. After the wind blows and the vicissitudes of life pass, the snow falls and the dust falls, sighing that the passing years are not enough...