The evening sun flames up the western slope;
Plants and trees light up with the last patches.
Some corners have already sunk into the haze;
Here, the pines and creepers meet up to link
In the tangle of the everlasting green. Alas,
So many waylaying tigers are all around—
Once they see me their manes stand on end.
Not as much as one inch blade in my hand,
Makes me strive with my acute fear. I wonder
If my lucky days will come to the end tonight. . .
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