The cold mountain turns dark green.
The autumn stream flows murmuring on.
Leaning on my staff beneath the wicket gate,
In the rushing wind I hear the cry of the aged cicada. (Wang Wei)

The cold mountain turns dark green. The autumn stream flows murmuring on. Leaning on my staff beneath the wicket gate, In the rushing wind I hear the cry of the aged cicada.

Related topics

aged autumn cicada cold cry dark gate green leaning mountain murmuring rushing staff stream wicket wind

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