The yellow sand is stained with blood, the warriors are armed with iron horses, overlooking the world, drinking green plums to discuss heroes, holding a sword at the top to point to the end of the world.
Sprinkle wine to the moon, sing in the morning and sing at night, tears like waves of smoke, play the piano softly to complain about beauty, and the lonely red fallen leaves follow the flowing water.
A song of neon clothes, a glass of mourning wine...