I hope they can bloom with bright and moving colors in my writing.
A woman in troubled times cannot hide in a high pavilion and smile, nor can she abide by the three obediences and the four virtues to support her husband and raise her children.
They are women with peerless looks. When the flames slaughtered the sky, their life experiences began to become like duckweeds, and they could only drift with the tide. She floated up to the red wall and glass with a sad smile; she floated to the lonely desert, staring into the distance; she floated to the ends of the world, dancing on the white jade platform, and she couldn't hold it for the rest of her life.
They may be obsessed, weak, or gentle, but they also love fiercely and decisively. Their love, like the raging fire on the battlefield, burned up their youth. It was cut continuously and unclearly, and finally it turned into a handful of ashes in the hand, and they were all scattered in the wind.
Who remembers them? The woman who once covered the palace walls with blood, the woman who let her life burn out in dance, the woman who bid farewell to her husband and young son to pursue the past?
As soon as they lower their heads or look back, they capture the charm of the four seasons; as soon as they flick their sleeves or raise their hands, they cover up the brilliance of the sun and the moon. They look at the bronze mirror, and their looks never fade; they lift up the curtains, and smile all over the city.
They are beauties, not troubles.
When I write about them, I imagine that the fire in their hearts has never been extinguished by the smoke of troubled times. Even if they burn their youth and lives, they never regret it!