The autumn wind blows, the leaves are dyed, and the acacia of the land, in the lonely night, withers with the autumn wind

A person walking behind fallen leaves, loneliness is sad, and heartbreak is always at the end, zero falling into mud, always buried by the hand of the season at the bustling intersection, while the heart is at some point, taken away by another memory.

Quietly leaning on the Zen forest, listening to the sound of rain and snow, half a cup of tea, quietly looking up at the sky, there is a thin cool breath, in a corner of the heart, sudden heartache, in the silent midnight, quietly looking back, so clear, not for the nostalgia of the world, only for the peace of mind, in a corner of the earthly world, quietly let those like, slowly from the fingertips slowly crossed, the original has always been sad, let those sorrows, slowly slipping from the corners of the eyes, leaving behind a shallow trace.

I stopped in the autumn, a tree, that is, we silently watched on the branches of acacia, let the change of seasons, the fingers of the wind, slowly grow old, and the wounds in the heart, but between the other eyebrows, clearly presented, is a certain past in time, those paintings that have been engraved on the heart, in time and shade, in a corner of the heart, blooming, or, disappearing, are only the past, but the beauty, but in the vanishing, refuse to leave. Our city, only that desolation, a shallow smile, turned around, but has become a parting legend.