Red hands, yellow vine wine, willows on the palace walls all over the city; the east wind is bad, joy is thin, I am full of melancholy, I have been away for a few years, wrong, wrong, wrong.
Spring is as old as before, people are empty and thin, tears stain the red city and the crocodile yarn shows through; peach blossoms fall, leisurely ponds and pavilions, although the mountain alliance is there, it is difficult to carry the brocade book, Mo, Mo, Mo.
The world is thin and human beings are evil. When the rain comes at dusk, flowers tend to fall. When the wind dries at night, the traces of tears remain. I want to convey my thoughts and lean against the railing alone. It is difficult, difficult, difficult.
People are different, today is not yesterday, the sick soul is always like a rope on a swing; the sound of the horn is cold, the night is dark, and I am afraid of being asked, so I swallow my tears and pretend to be happy, hiding, hiding, hiding.