In the winter of the third year of Hanjiang, there was a jailer sitting in front of the prison in the capital. He was half drunk and chanted a song:
Thirty years after entering the mortal world, the four sections are still dreaming of the autumn soul. All the clouds in the palace have passed, and only the turbid wine comforts me now. Thinking about the past thousands of years, the freckles on the temples still smile. In ancient times, the winner was the king and the loser was the bandit. After the dog-brained bow was used to attack...