The world is whirling, all kinds of red and purple, turning into gray in the blink of an eye. The world is far away, in a prosperous place, listening to the morning bells and evening drums, one thought becomes persistent, and you feel at ease. The cold window is miserable, and the prince, prince, and grandson travel all over the world for fame. Lovesickness is painful, years are wasted, flowers fall from the water and love is deep in the bones; hair is gray, face is old, but the gentleness of the world is worthy of you. Flowers bloom with two faces, and they live among Buddhas and demons. In anger, the scholar makes a mistake, draws his sword for beauty, and throws a thousand pieces of gold into the hook. The passing years are quiet, the prosperity has come to an end, and I look down on gains and losses, honors and disgrace. Who is writing about the turmoil of the world, lamenting the desolation of the world, falling in love with the prosperity of the world, and losing countless reds, but I can't resist it in the end: life is full of joy, death has no regrets.