Night, yellow lights in the rain. I seem to hear a call from a distant home. Rise, without the moon, my thoughts travel with the night light to the village. The clouds, can you carry a hint of the wine cellar's aroma? I've trodden the muddy path many times, the farmer with his hoe, the cattle herder at sunset. Small bridges, flowing streams. Vehicles pass by on the side, but they don't include me; I'm going home. Is there a feeling expressed here that conveys homesickness and sadness? The river water stretches long, nostalgia immeasurable. I heard a call, tears wetting the lines of my pillow. Night, yellow lights in the rain.
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