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The genial wind from the south |
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Blows on the heart of that jujube tree, |
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Till that heart looks tender and beautiful. |
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What toil and pain did our mother endure! |
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The genial wind from the south |
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Blows on the branches of that jujube tree, |
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Our mother is wise and good; |
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But among us there is none good. |
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There is the cool spring |
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Below [the city of] Jun. |
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We are seven sons, |
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And our mother is full of pain and suffering. |
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The beautiful yellow birds |
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Give forth their pleasant notes. |
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We are seven sons, |
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And cannot compose our mother's heart. |