The green hills are not old, where will the heroes go?
When the flowers blooming in the crowded pool, when the light and shadow for ten miles are extinguished and the boundless mountains and rivers are burning, when the past drifts away like mist.
For whom would that graceful and graceful woman be willing to quietly roll up her red scarf and green sleeves under a low thatched eaves somewhere?
Who and whom will they be, dead or at the end of the world?