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On Kokang

Beneath those lofty Kokang peaks,
There is hardly any pleasure to seek.
Faint mule tracks are the only ways
To Kokang's heart by monotonous days.

By monsoon season ways turn to pools,
And skillful riders become fools,
Slipping down with thunderous sound.
When riders and horses fall asunder,
Legs and hands become broken members.

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