Red crisp hands, yellow vine wine, willows on palace walls all over the city. The east wind is bad, happiness is thin, and I am full of melancholy. I have been away for a few years. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
Spring is as old as ever, people are thin and empty, and the tears are red and raw. The peach blossoms have fallen, and the pavilion is idle. Although the mountain alliance is there, it is difficult to hold the brocade book. Mo! Mo! Mo!
The world is thin, people are evil, and flowers tend to fall when the rain comes at dusk. The morning wind has dried, and the traces of tears remain. I want to write down my thoughts, and I lean on the leaning railing alone. Disaster! Disaster! Disaster!
People are different, today is not yesterday, and the sick soul is always like a rope on a swing. The sound of the horn is cold, the night is dark, I am afraid of being asked, so I swallow my tears and pretend to be happy. Conceal! Conceal! Conceal!