biren wang

Rookie [wangbiren]

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In March, a little wind.
In my love before
she married the summer.
Perhaps, the spring to give her a large dowry.
The flying catkins, curl of smoke.
She was supposed to be my bride.
The gods may be in half, Lake or deep or shallow.
I have a bit of thinking with any trouble.
All floating paper become my hands.

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