Red crisp hands, yellow vine wine, the city is full of spring scenery and willows on the palace walls. The east wind is evil, happiness is thin, a cup of melancholy leaves me alone for a few years. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
Spring is as old as before, people are thin and empty, and the tears are red and the silk threads show through. The peach blossoms have fallen, and the pavilion is idle. Although the mountain alliance is there, it is difficult to hold the brocade book. Mo, mo, mo!
The world is thin, people are evil, and flowers tend to fall when the rain comes at dusk. At dawn, the wind has dried, and there are still traces of tears. I want to write down my thoughts, but I can't speak alone. Disaster! Disaster! Disaster!
People are different, today is not yesterday, and the sick soul is always like a rope on a swing. The sound of the horn is cold, the night is dark, I am afraid of being asked, so I swallow my tears and pretend to be happy. Hide it, hide it, hide it!