| I forget my lips are rouged |
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| I raise my hands, and the clear water |
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| Mistaking birds for leaves |
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| Touching the line from a fishing pole |
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| The Willow flows away |
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| In the moonlight this year I weep in mid-autumn |
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| Quiet House |
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| Wily youth's odd tactic: night, he turned back his troops |
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| Butterfly: what's it dreaming of |
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| By its own wind, a small butterfly |
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