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Before my bed, the moonlight shines, I wonder if it’s frost on the ground. I raise my head to gaze at the bright moon, And lower it to think of my hometown.
My old friend bids farewell to the west, leaving Yellow Crane Tower, In the misty, blooming March, he heads down to Yangzhou. His lonely sail is a distant shadow that disappears into the blue sky, All I see is the endless flow of the Yangtze River to the horizon.
Sunlight streams on the Incense Stone, and smoke rises in purple hues, From afar, I look at the waterfall hanging on the front river. Its cascade plunges straight down three thousand feet, As if the Milky Way is falling from the ninth heaven.