Embankments on the path, in the moonlight became desolate, and darted away to the distant spread, so I wander on this river bank. Weeds along the river bank, silent crops, are quietly standing in the pale moonlight, as if what is silently waiting. They wait? Is waiting for the harvest sickle it? Is waiting for the wildfire burning it? Perhaps they are waiting for the call of fate, to end the process is to rebirth process.
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