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— Luo Binwang Of autumn the cicada sings; In prison I’m worn out with care. How can I bear its blue black wings Which remind me of my grey hair? Heavy with dew it cannot fly; Drowned in the wind, its song’s not heard Who would believe its spirit high? Could I express my…
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Wukong remained trapped inside the golden cymbals. The darkness was absolute, and the heat became so suffocating that sweat soon covered his entire body.
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Having escaped the perils of thorns and entangled tree spirits, the pilgrims continued westward. Soon winter came to an end, and spring returned, spreading its presence everywhere. The master and his disciples preferred the languid fragrance of flowers and the soft comfort of meadows.