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Under western cliff a fisherman passes the night;
At dawn he makes bamboo fire to boil water clean.
Mist clears off at sunrise but there’s no man in sight;
Only the fisherman’s song turns hill and rill green.
He goes down mid-stream and turns to look on the sky.
What does he see but clouds freely wafting on high.
By 艾特小五子Under western cliff a fisherman passes the night;
At dawn he makes bamboo fire to boil water clean.
Mist clears off at sunrise but there’s no man in sight;
Only the fisherman’s song turns hill and rill green.
He goes down mid-stream and turns to look on the sky.
What does he see but clouds freely wafting on high.

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