The mystic moon arose,
visible above the bamboo fields,
the shadows grew larger and
larger like
black spots on the moon's beauty,
yet, silence was unknown
as if death had been defeated.

What was death's; it became ours,
like a drop in an ocean,
The mist stayed like the fate does,
all visions were obscured
by this fog for countless seasons,
in the distant one could hear,
'the pens have been lifted and
the pages have dried.'

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