Iâ??m sick, for sure: deep darkness holds my heart,
Iâ??m bored with the people and the stories,
And dream of treasures of the kingdoms, glories,
And yataghans, all covered with blood. ...
How tranquil is this little mountain lake
Itâ??s filled with water like a cup
Bamboo looks just like little houses
And trees above â?? a sea of roofs. ...
Browning, old fellow,
Your leaves grow yellow,
Beginning to mellow
As seasons pass.
Your cover is wrinkled,
And stained and sprinkled,
And warped and crinkled
From sleep on the grass.
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