Carrying a poppy he passes through the quarrel.
Moon, plum blossoms, this, that, and the day goes
Dry creek glimpsed by lightning
Take a nap Making the mountain water Pound the rice.
Face of the spring moon- about twelve years old, I'd say.
On the Death of his Child Dew Evaporates And all our world is dew...so dear, So fresh, so fleeting
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