The street is long, the fireworks are numerous, you turn on the light to look back; the pavilion is short, the world is rolling, and I sigh again.
Who made the string break in the end, the flowers fell on the shoulders, and I was confused.
How many beauties are haggard, how many lovesicknesses are broken, only blood stains the ink and cries on the graves.
The boundless earth can be destroyed with a single sword, where will the bustling music and music fall. Leaning against the clouds, thousands of pots hide my loneliness, even if others laugh at me in vain