On the stone city, Wu Chu looked at the sky and saw nothing. Pointing out the six dynasty-shaped resorts, only the green mountains are like walls. The sun is blocked by flags, clouds and trees, and the bones are as white as snow. From north to south of the Yangtze River, how many heroes are wasting away. Lonely in the summer palace, the east wind drives the chariot road, and the grass grows every year. In the uninhabited pine path at sunset, ghost fires rise and fall. In front of the singing and dancing statue, in the prosperous mirror, the hair is darkly green. Sad for all eternity, Qinhuai is a bright moon.