In Exile, Spring Snow
Filling the town, overflowing the district, so many plum blossoms.
Wind rustling them in the sunlight, the first flowers of the year!
They stick to the feet of the geese, just like pieces of cloth.
They dot the heads of crows: perhaps I will return home.
Wind rustling them in the sunlight, the first flowers of the year!
They stick to the feet of the geese, just like pieces of cloth.
They dot the heads of crows: perhaps I will return home.
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