Meeting is hard; Separation is even harder-- And now the east wind Has no more strength; Flowers wither by the hundreds. Till spring the silkworm spins, Then dies. Candles must first turn ash, Before their tears can dry. This morning, Looking in the mirror, I find my hair has taken on The color of clouds-- Now singing poems in the night I shall feel the moonlight's chill; For I have not much farther to go To reach the sacred mountains. Bluebird, be a sentry, Go, seek out a way.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com