Write a poem that has been hit hard.

Asking how much sorrow you can have is like a pot of spring water flowing eastward.

Think about it, a thousand miles of smoke, the sky is wide at dusk, the water is more flowing, and the sorrow is more worrying.

Widows cry with their children, and generals are captured by the enemy. Ungrateful palace master face, landing to lift people's hearts.

Please accept it if you are satisfied!