What is this life of mine?Rambling on, I entrust myself to fate.
Sometimes laughter, sometimes tears.
Neither a layman nor a monk.
An early spring rain drizzles on and on.
But the plum blossoms have yet to bringhten things up.
All morning I sit by the hearth.
No one to talk to.
I search for my copybook
And then brush a few poems.
Very serene...very existentialist, what?
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