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I stretch across the ocean mist,
In fog and sun, I still persist.
Painted red, though named like gold,
What am I, strong and bold?
I climb steep hills with a steady clang,
From Powell Street to Fisherman’s gang.
With tracks below and bells above,
What am I that tourists love?
Once a fortress, then a jail,
My walls have heard a prisoner’s wail.
Surrounded by a sea so wide,
Escape from me? No one tried.
Lanterns bright and dragons near,
This lively place brings culture here.
Dim sum served and markets shout,
Which district are we talking about?
I roll in daily, thick or thin,
Hiding bridges, shrouding skin.
Gray and soft, I cool the day,
What am I that drifts your way?
Twisting curves like a serpent’s path,
Tourists drive and sometimes laugh.
With flowers blooming down the slope,
What’s this famous road of hope?