Shuddering distance bewails as streams rebound from the fringes of tributary immersion
Wrinkled lip commands nothing but wreck less lips.
Twisted knaves might twist golden barn door and build nothing but chaff.
Broken vestige pandering over paly wombs
The barren field in the nature 's curly roses
Could return to the golden rays of beautiful spring tide.
Tis is time for the barren fields the spring time cannot betray the golden roses of the harvest moon.
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