I played the harp and held my jade sword in my arms. At that time, the mountains and rivers were desolate. Recalling the weather in the North, it is still cold in Qingjiao. Who knows, the wind is blowing and the snow is blowing, and the three-foot blade cuts off Loulan. If the seven strings are broken, don't wait until the next year is over, and the wild geese will fly back. However, the spring breeze is green again, but in the dream, the rain is falling across the beam garden. It seems that the beautiful woman is still there, lingering in confusion. The time has passed, and when we look at each other, our faces are passing by. On the night of the Qiang Flute, I am re-arranging my return date. Who will pity the cold moon?