Edged the ink sword, battle flags fluttering sound;
cold arrow cut through the dark night, leads to scorching.
Bloodied sonorous as the decisive array battles.
Faintly,
in distant,
as the old angler picture.
The pathos, monotonous, clumsy but the full battlefield
sorrow contingent; Erotic jade month, one will get off
the ground, the soul of no return.
Another night,
the autumn chill,
such as blood, spineless.
A clear shadow under the moonlight, a solitude soul
queue in the wilderness. Dawn, the dawn of the first
wipe light pierce the canopy.
Dressed in white attire,
transparent shines,
looming.
Of hands of electricity, from the raging sea of clouds,
under the sleeves of a bright pedestal,
there lies a hidden archived sword.
But since the war unfinished, the end can not do so.
