There is a rumor in the world: "The young master's light fur coat has made countless achievements, and the beautiful sleeves are hard to find in the world."
False faces sing in the Yaotai Pavilion, life is a Yangguan and death is a disaster, Kyushu drinks wine and laments the merits and demerits, the beauty is charming the city and the country. The pipa rises, the nine states are broken, the crimson lips, the green silk, the gold horse, the red halberd is broken.
The history book also recorded: "The young master is as beautiful as a demon, as gorgeous as plum, as cold as frost, as poisonous as opium, as cold as snow, as warm as jade, as light as wind, as light as rain, as moist as the moon, as elegant as bamboo, as misty as mist, as quiet as orchid, and as moving as merchant."
Years later, he is still the handsome young man in my heart, and he is still the handsome man walking towards me holding a green bamboo umbrella.
When I look back, along the ancient lanes, following the shadows of the past, the setting sun, the wild geese flying south, the Wei River flowing eastward, and riding horses to see the scenery of the past, I stopped at the tea house and listened to the storyteller recount the past, but time has already passed by and the years have passed by. Things are different and people are different, there are only ancient crowns, clothes and hills, bustling competitions, sighing at the buildings outside the door, continuous sorrow and hatred, relying on the heights through the ages, sighing about honor and disgrace, the past events of the Six Dynasties are like running water.
Making tea in a rotten wooden cup, I laugh at you with no one to accompany me. I feel lonely when I grow old, only then do I know the feeling of parting.