Li Qingzhao's slow speech was rewritten into prose, which is equivalent to translation, but writing is better than translation.

Step by step, no one knows whether the dreamer is at the cape or at the end of the world. A person is lonely, and a thousand years have passed. I really want to learn from the free and easy of Violet laymen, and invite the bright moon to drink together, which is the pleasure of three people. However, it is already dusk, so I have to let the chill and full loneliness slip from my fingers to my heart, cold. Who did you tell this bitter stomach? In early autumn, the bloody sunset is no longer tragic, and there is only cold air flying in the rustling autumn wind. I couldn't sleep all night. All I could think of was the hatred between my country and my family, and I was deeply immersed in love. A man leaned against the door and drank osmanthus wine brought from his hometown. The smell of wine remains the same, but the husband who has been laughing and laughing is long gone, so he has to endure tears and imagine everything about Mr. Lang. Because the evening wind is more autumn, my thin clothes can no longer resist this bleak season, so I have to drink it cup by cup to warm my cold heart. A wild goose flew through the air, and the shrill cry awakened my dream. When I opened my hazy drunk eyes, I found that it was that girl's wild goose that had been flying over my head. Another gust of wind blew, and I had to wrap my clothes tightly, only to find that the flowers in the garden fell one by one. In just a few seconds, the earth was covered with a golden coat. That fallen branch is as haggard as I am. Who but me has pity on the flowers of this dying world? Sitting alone in front of the window, lingering love songs came from outside the window, beating my broken heart one by one. Tears rolled down my eyes. How many people have heard the thin rain in the cold wind and the dense oblique weaving, my blood dripping mood? This little rain, this little tear, has been raining until dusk. I am expecting that dusk will come early to cover up the sadness in my eyes. Those fleeting youth years, with my blood, through my pen, fell on the paper a little bit, a deep red. As a result, life slows down day by day in the waiting. As a result, there are more and more sorrows in waiting. I, on the other hand, had to keep a sad voice and die quietly in this evening, living alone, like a zombie. Just moving his mouth slightly, he still sang in a low voice: "It's cold and desolate, and it's the hardest to rest when it's warm and cold ..."