A poem whose language is like vernacular Chinese in ancient poetry.

Huns cultivated by killing. In ancient times, only white bones and yellow sand fields were seen.

But knowing soldiers is a weapon, and saints also need to use it.

Flowers are not flowers, fog is not fog, come at midnight and go at dawn. Come like a spring dream, go like a floating cloud.

Joe doesn't fight for spring, he only reports it. When the flowers bloom, she laughs in the bushes.

Didn't you see Qinghai Head, where all the old bones were abandoned?

The new ghost wails there, and the old one is loudest in the stormy dark sky.