The iron horse's cold hooves are stepping on the autumn wind, and the three-foot-high green front is crying for wine as the moon rises. The snow-bearded general is weak in his crown, and the sound of whips and wild geese in the desert is cold.
Thousands of miles of yellow sand, a solitary grave, horses drink from the long river, and swallows shoot at the big roc with their bows. The three armies sound the war drums, but they still play my "Lanling Dream".
——"Butterfly Loves Flowers"
"Lanling Dream"
The coolness falls, and the jade leaves are not sheltered from dust and wind.
The meaning of the sword is hazy in the smoke of the wolf, and the sharp edge is hidden in the spring and autumn.
Thousands of miles are in vain, unaware of the dusk mist rising quietly. The red plum blossoms are still red pearls, but they cannot restrain the march of time.
There is no road ahead in the mountains, and it is quiet and cold. When the young master leaves Cong, he dreams of being a hero for the rest of his life.
There is no use holding the wine cup, waving my hands to say goodbye to Xiaoyao Cage. The zither is broken and the waning moon ends.
Hurrying like a clear sky, in the vast six roads, there is a long embankment of green willows, and I can't help crying a thousand times when I ask about the flute.
The flowers are buried without chanting, and we see each other off at the bridge.
Where is King You? The beauty is empty and the beacon fire is raging.