Once, holding the hand of the son and talking to him were just smoke in the end; once, the life and death bond was broad, and growing old together with the son was fruitless; deep in the world, spanning thousands of years, she dreamed of the Qin Dynasty; conspiracy, plotting, and seizing the throne, the rise and fall of the Qin Empire. The storm is about to begin. . . . . .
Fill your sleeves with wine, hide your white head of lovesickness.
The wind and snow are stained with glass, and the sky is bright with red candles.
I wish I could drink this room to relieve my worries for a thousand battles, but love is rooted in love and bound by love threads;
The heart is long and the flame is short, and the wind and moon are difficult to penetrate, so it is called a prisoner of this love.