When we first met each other in white clothes, we painted gold on paper fans, and our eyebrows were charming. On the road to Beijing, the sound of the flute is heard, the blood is dotted with cinnabar and the moon is half-gathered.
The sword points to a person from that time. I just say that we will never meet each other in this life, traveling north and south, staining my temples with tears. After several years of separation, the resentment has become shallow, but the love is deep. When the chrysanthemums fall, I meet you again. I drink wine in the wind without saying a word.