Li Bo

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I sit staring at the moon
Through paper windows.
While memories waltz like shooting stars,
I gaze at the lake,
Frosted like oil on cold soup.
How I wish to dive
Into those murky depths,
Immerse myself into darkness
To forever drift with waves.
Instead, I sit writing poetry
Beneath cloudy nights, drown
Nostalgia with aged wine
Until sleep consumes me
To dream of death.





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