For a hundred miles the west wind carries the fragrance of millet
For a hundred miles, the west wind carries the fragrance
of millet;
the water is low in the cold stream,
the grain is on the threshing-floor.
The old buffalo, done with his task of plowing for today,
chews some grass as he lies in the sunset
of millet;
the water is low in the cold stream,
the grain is on the threshing-floor.
The old buffalo, done with his task of plowing for today,
chews some grass as he lies in the sunset
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