When heaven’s candle brings up the golden crown,
For autumn wears off waiting of this town;
There sits the beauty who is called the blessing of time,
Worshiped by the birds, the odes, like a saint.
If wind could give up the treasures on the hill,
And no-one shall ever speak up for his own will;
The cow would stop mooing, the clock ticking，
As if the hope is never there before Mimir’s warning.
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