Green hills above the northern wall, White water winding east of the city. On this spot our single act of parting, The lonely tumbleweed journeys ten thousand li.
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"My white hair stretches thirty thousand feet—such is the length of my sorrow!"
"Beneath the blossoms with a pot of wine, No friends at hand, so I poured alone; I raised my cup to invite the moon, Turned to my shadow, and we became three."
"The moon follows me like an old friend."
"Heaven is high, Earth Wide. Bitter between them flies my sorrow."
"I wake with the moon on my pillow—it’s frost, I suppose."
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