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Why do the mortals tread so lightly, as if afraid to awaken someone?
Why does our mood weigh heavy, who is it that disquiets our heart!
Why are the heavens shedding tears?
Why does the great earth weep blood across the profound yellow?
Why even the pines and cypresses are stirred with emotion?
Bursts of thunder roll over my grave, like applause, yet not applause.
No one wishes to sleep forever at the moment they reach the pinnacle.
Do not comfort me, the eternally slumbering one, with "the eternal Green Emperor." Perhaps one day, wrinkles may grow on my tombstone, taking the place of me and mimicking the visage I've long yearned for. O mortals, who kneel before my grave, better to remain silent; those who revere me must stay silent just like I do.
Only when the thunder rolls by does it resemble the echoes from the ancient battlefield.
Or perhaps, the cries from our dead hearts.
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