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A few strokes of pale ink, myriad layers of misty haze
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The clouds seem to yearn for her garments, the flowers for her face.
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Not showing myself to the mortal world, I lean by the mirror, weighed down by springtime sorrow.
"Drunk, I didn't realize the sky was mirrored in the water; my boat filled with clear dreams gently
"She was born too noisy, yet her farewell was the quietest."
This sorrow stretches endlessly without end.
How can one withstand the fierce evening wind?
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