I passed through the South of Yangzi

The face waiting at the turn of seasons, like a lotus flower, blooms and wilts

Without the east wind, the willow catkins in March do not flutter

Your heart is like the lonesome little town

Like its streets of cobblestones near nightfall

When footfalls are silent and the bed curtains of March not unveiled

Your heart is a little window tightly shut

My clattering hooves are beautiful mistakes

I am not a homecoming man but a passing traveler …

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