Yesterday's black hair, the red bones in the grave. The moonlight comes late and withers, the mourning song harmonizes with none. Sorrow and joy are without tears, it is the white hair of the world, the sword's courage turns to ash. The qin wood is mournful, when the strings are exhausted, the autumn wind sadly returns, do not ask from the beginning. Heroes always have no path, a thousand years of wine in the world, unable to understand this one sorrow!