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Last Spring
Lin Huiyin
Nothing but last spring, a winding path
Extends through red-and-white fragrant flowers,
In the pale afternoon, I climb the mountain again,
Looking back, there blows a slant of pine wind
Across the slope, across a long distance by my side.
When people gone, peacock-green garden gate,
White lilacs compose charming details, and now,
Another season of melting lake, all comes into paintings.
Suspended in time, no sunshine comes ahead,
But a line of lonely memory slants under a tree.
