A Myriad of Rivers Rush Eastward To the Sea
The okra in the garden is green,
The dew awaits the first sunray.
Spring blesses the world with bliss,
And everthing is lively and gay.
A constant fear of autumn's arrival that
Would make leaves and flowers decay.
A myriad of rivers rush eastward to the sea,
And flow back not in the west-bound way.
If we don't work hard in youth, regrets
Would sure climb up our grey hair one day.
( Tran.)
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