I stood on the high Zhanghua Terrace with my sword, and looked down over the gray stone steps. I saw the late autumn scenery of the south of the Yangtze River under my feet, with nothing but desolation. The grass and trees are withered, the yellow leaves are covered with frost, and not far away, the majestic and sad sound of the Yellow Bell and the Great Lu, passing through the stagnant air, comes out layer by layer from the Bei Quezhu Pavilion. The afternoon is gloomy, there are no people, no birds singing, and the Chu Palace is deep and silent.