The west wind is strong, and the geese in the sky are calling the frost and morning moon;
The sound of the flute is swallowed, and the yellow sand and white bones leave people more and more.
Whoever cooks wine will be drunk and laughing all his life, and a thousand cups will be hard to sell;
The cliff is stained with blood, and the palace and city are lonely.
Bearing the snow on Cangshan Mountain, it turns into blood;
The falling sand and moss, the lotus blooming with blood.
The hope was wasted, and the people were empty.
After so many years, who cares?