In a sharp gale from the wide sky apes are whimpering
Over the clear lake and white sand birds are flying homeward
Immensity of leaves rustling fell
The never-ending Yangtze river rolling on
I have come thousands of miles miles away, sad now with autumn
And with my hundred years of woe, I climb this height alone.
Ill fortune has laid a bitter frost on my temples，
Heart-ache and weariness are a thick dust in my wine.
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