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Reed
My flute was made of the reed,
With beautiful rhythms spreading around the town.
I walked along the bank,
Looking at your living places with gladness.
No matter how infertile you grow up,
You are still flicking near the bank.
A poet picked up one of your stems,
Making it a pen to write down his or her poems.
Words and sounds are mixing with beautiful melodies,
Echoing on the land and passing to the heaven!
© jack05234
With beautiful rhythms spreading around the town.
I walked along the bank,
Looking at your living places with gladness.
No matter how infertile you grow up,
You are still flicking near the bank.
A poet picked up one of your stems,
Making it a pen to write down his or her poems.
Words and sounds are mixing with beautiful melodies,
Echoing on the land and passing to the heaven!
© jack05234
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