Red crisp hands, yellow wine, the city is full of spring scenery and willows on the palace walls. The east wind is bad, happiness is thin, and I am full of melancholy. I have been away for a few years. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Spring is as old as ever, people are thin and empty, and the tears are red and raw. 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 the traces of tears remain. I want to write down my thoughts, and I talk alone across the fence. Difficult, difficult, difficult!
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!