The moonlight flows like light, and the lonely courtyard is quiet.
The lamp in white clothes leans against the bright moon, and the drunken eyes lock the silver hook with thoughts.
The lingering dreams at the top of the building, the old hatreds at the end of the world.
The cuckoo cries endlessly with resentment, but cries blood instead of clear tears.
The heroes of Yishui are gone, but the good poems of Qin are left behind for future generations.
A sword shocked the prince.
Three points of dispute, the world changed hands, and the Qiang people were in charge.
A handful of loess, waiting for future generations to comment.