The golden hairpin's gone, her hair is coiled up. A thousand households pity the gifted, their voices falling silent. No one hears; the palace walls are patterned with frost. Fine clothes remain as before, while the years roll by. Promises, promises, promises!
Who has ever won???, when has the gleaming, mottled thing been spat upon? Moon over Wucheng, its sound circles the heavens. No one listens to the complaints; pass the time with a little amusement. Gone, gone, gone!
