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The red leaves of the fallen maple tree
The minute hand advances intermittently
The annual rings appear clearly
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The people in the play have no intention of acting
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The maple tree by the window
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Go north to the desert
You put on your backpack
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Sand, dust, howling wind
Intertwined into mist
The quiet sky in the middle of the night
Is there still a myth about Chang'e on the moon
To pursue you
I move into the eyes of migrating birds
Witness the passing of the northerly wind
(Ke Lingyun)