The leaves are yellow, the butterflies are dancing, and the heavy dreams are quietly sliding out of the fragrance of autumn flowers. The night is dark, everything is incomparably far away, everything is like smoke. In a trance, I was lost in such a depression, unable to distinguish between the fallen leaves and the flying butterflies, as if they were all performing the so-called romance of flying, whether it was the falling leaves, or the music of the butterflies falling in the world.
Purple raindrops, strung together in a fresh gallery, condensed and hung on the branches. The freehand of the fresh spirit, a series of heavy hearts are clanging. I don't know whose hand it is, soaked in the autumn wind, and I don't know whose eyes are flowing with blue crystals, dripping in the dew on the tip of the grass.
I don't know whose hair it is, stroking Suqin, behind a note of clouds, playing with the rain fragrance of acacia, bit by bit, dripping. I don't know who it is, between the fragrant red eyebrows, the wisp of sadness is invading, diffusing. Tonight, I will fall asleep with many question marks in my arms around a round of blue moonlight.
Count the stars, count the moon, and in the blue dreams, it seems to be full of floral fragrance and fine ripples of romance. Tonight, I will quietly sow the loneliness of a place and sing in my heart. Tonight, I will lift the threshold of my dreams and weave warmth to keep you warm. Tonight, I will float the poems written in autumn to the distance for you to read with the breeze.