Red crisp hands, yellow wine, the city is full of spring scenery and willows on the palace walls. The east wind is evil, joy is thin, I am full of melancholy, I have been away from home for several years, wrong, wrong, wrong.
Spring is as old as ever, people are empty and thin, tears are red and the shark's gauze is transparent; peach blossoms are falling, leisurely ponds and pavilions, although the mountain alliance is there, it is difficult to hold the brocade book, Mo, Mo, Mo.
I was physically and mentally exhausted in my previous life.
In this life, the liver and intestines are broken.
Is it because of love that we live in this world? Or for love?