The roc rises with the wind one day, soaring ninety thousand miles. The wanderer's sword excels at slaying foes. The bright moon flute softens my heart. Drunk, I recline on a beauty's lap, twirling the strands of your hair. A smile, lips pursed. The Supreme Way is without mercy; Heaven treats all things as straw dogs. Self, no-self, only-self, alone-self, forget-self.
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