The sound of the pipa makes those who hear it drunk. Ming is the number one in the world, secretly a vengeful person with murderous intentions. The wind is surging and the undercurrent is rolling. The tranquility of the capital was broken...
I play the pipa with my backhand, the crescent moon fills the west building, and the snow stains my sleeves.
The soul is still drunk, the willows on the river bank are withered, when will the prosperity stop?
If you want to express your sorrow, who will you wait for half your life to look back at?