TO HIS DEAD LOVER

THE SWISHING SOUND OF SILK IS STILL. THE DUST GATHERS ON MARBLE FLOORS. THE ROOM IS HOLLOW, COLD AND SILENT. LEAVES HAVE DRIFTED AGAINST THE DOORS.

LONGING FOR THAT LOST SWEET GIRL, I WONDER HOW TO LULL MY ACHING HEART TO REST. [Li Fu-jen]

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