The son is free from the hustle and bustle of the world, and he is in charge of the maple and the moon. A sword with two frosted edges, half a pavilion with warm tea reflecting the moon. Jiutianqin, snow everywhere.
In fact, the setting sun condenses the slanting light on the sword's edge, which is the color of blood.
The yellow flowers are blown down by the strong wind, and the sky is full of red. They are all broken into pieces. Threads of love are flying all over the sky, holding people in their arms, frightening their dreams, and regretting their love. Even if they leave, they shed tears.
A cup of sorrow has run out of tears, and my heart is broken early when I play the poem. At the end of the separation, the tears fall on the clothes and gauze, and my heart breaks. I don't change my mind about Hunan.