The cold wind is blowing,
That's the whistle of the changing seasons,
From the hustle and bustle of summer,
To the low of autumn,
And then the quiet loneliness of winter,
There is no ceaseless attachment in this world,
But there is no shortage of sad and joyful cycles.
Everything is a flowing attachment.
Look at the autumn leaves like fire,
Exhausted all memories,
Ignite thousands of mountains and valleys,
In the majestic splendor,
Interprets a wonderful curtain call.
All things need to be hidden in winter,
Wrapped in hope deeply,
There is also the spring convention.
This is the time to return to purification,
The rings of the year are silently remembered,
Temporary shivering,
It is also shaking off the shell of the years.
In the near future,
Heavy snow arrived as scheduled,
The forest of silver veils shrouded in longing,
Turn the lonely waiting into the ice of attachment.
Everything is on the hook of the squirrel,
A deep sigh was raised.
The old man has flowered armor,
He sat alone without fear of the cold wind,
In the scrolls on that spoke wall,
There was only a resolute back.
