• 2022-06-06
    Withered vines hanging on old branches,Returning crows croaking at dusk.A few houses hidden past a narrow bridge,And below the bridge a quiet creek running.Down a worn path, in the west wind, A lean horse comes plodding The sun dips down in the westAnd the lovesick traveler is still at the end of the world.
    A: description
    B: narration
    C: exposition