I ruled the world for your pen, but you broke my childhood friends for two generations;
I planted ten miles of peach blossoms for you, but you let me bathe in smoke and sand for three and a half years;
I gave you a railing to lean on, but you told me to wait for four songs to be sung and played.
I've been longing for you, but you've wasted me five years.
I endured traveling all over the world for you, but you made me lose my helmet and armor six times;
I hid cinnabar in my brow for you, but you made me laugh for seven bowls of arsenic.
I dyed your hair and turned white, but you exhausted me and screamed eight times.
I was defeated by mountains and rivers for you, but you let me hear the story of September;
I promised my motherland to marry you, but you let me sigh ten sentences: white is not him.