People are idle, osmanthus flowers fall, and the night is quiet and empty. When the moon comes out, the birds are startled, and the sound enters the spring stream.
Thousands of folds of green light and cold clothes, clear springs and white stones lock cigarette leaves. Mid-levels dusk firewood phase language, once alone cold pine monk. The fallen leaves go to the wrong birds, and the clouds are clear in the forest. There was no road on the cliff, and suddenly the bell was weak.
The bright moon shed clear light from the cracks and cleared the fountain on the rocks. The bamboo forest is sonorous, the washerwoman returns, and the lotus leaves are swaying to get on the canoe.
Jathyapple, what comes to us is the melancholy voice of Du Fu, a sad empty mountain.
Birds are freely perched in the trees by the pool, and monks are knocking at the door.
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