The convoy stopped and went, only a hundred miles west of Chang'an.
The Sixth Army stagnated and demanded the death of Yang Yuhuan. The king had no choice but to hang Yang Yuhuan at the foot of Mawei slope.
The ornaments on the imperial concubine’s head were scattered all over the floor and no one took them away. The emerald green gorse scratches his head, and the precious headgear is one by one.
The king couldn't help but covered his face and cried. Looking back at the scene of the tragic death of the imperial concubine, tears of blood could not stop flowing.
The bleak autumn wind swept away the fallen leaves, the loess dust had disappeared, and the convoy walked through the plank road with twists and turns, and the motorcade set foot on the ancient Jiange Road.
There are few people walking down Mount Emei, the flags are colorless, and the sun and moon have no light.
The beautiful mountains and clear waters of Sichuan aroused the lovesickness of the king. Looking at the moon in the palace is full of sadness, and listening to the music on a rainy night makes my voice sad.
After the rebellion subsided, the king returned to Chang'an and passed by Maweipo. He hesitated after seeing the things and missing people.