The Old Town

Old Town

The copper sky blows sun dust;

Play ecstatic dance with raindrops,

Your crazy feet on the ground.

The wavering pictures of the old town;

The smoke that rises from the pine trees

Gilds the crest of the hills;

The blue clouds that flew thousands of miles away

Would return home by the fall of the day.

The soft whistles of myna echoes in the air,

The ethereal music wafts in the silent sphere.

The wild berries glow red in my memories,

A tang of some sweet and sour stories.

The great canyon and a dozen of immortal streams,

The country road still crosses my dreams.

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