Swinging up the crow's nest boat, smooth water and wind, your eighteen-year-old face, like the lotus flowers in the sun, through the green stone alley, lit up the red lantern, your eighteen years of waiting for, is the innocent smile.
Poured full of daughter red, love is always so thick, eighteen miles of the long pavilion, and then do not have to send each other, lifted your red head, see the hall full of candles and shadows shaking red, eighteen years of longing for each other, as far as in no words.
The nine daughters of red, buried eighteen winter, nine daughters of red, brewing a dream of eighteen years, nine daughters of red, sprinkled to the north, south, west and east, nine daughters of red, forever drunk in my heart.