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How should this be likened to: the places we have been to in our lives?
None is more like a swan goose treading on muddy snow,
where its claw-prints left behind by chance.
But when it flies again, who cares if it goes east or west?
That old monk has passed away, and only a new pagoda left,
now unable to be seen the old inscriptions on tattered walls.
Still remember that trudging journey of the past?
Yes, long distance, fatigued travelers, and the braying of that limped ass.
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