Through flocks of mountains, myriad valleys, I arrive in Jingmen, where Ming-fei was born and bred--* the village is still there. Once she left the crimson terraces, there was nothing but endless desert; only her evergreen grave is left to face the twilight. Portraits have recorded her spring-fresh face; the tinkle of girdle pendants heralds her soul`s vain return by moonlight. For a thousand years the pipa has wailed in its alien tongue, as if its strings bemoan in song her tragic tale of grief.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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