- Maybe in the fall
Returning in the night, it is not a snowy night, the distant light reflects the mind of the sleepless, some white, faint, cold night, only I am alone. A person is awake, asking about the happiness around them, maybe the happy people are awake, as if they are flawless encounters in each other's reincarnation, so beautiful. However, only the black of the night can sing, and the rest seems to be gone.
Autumn night is still a merciless drift, no signs, no regrets, no tolerance for my poetry prayers, just blindly leaving the wonderful, in the autumn high and refreshing days, let me look up to the height of life, when falling, so confused, not lonely. Life is the same, when it comes, it is boundless. When you go, it is invisible. Between comings and goings, there is no way.
It is always after suffering that it will gradually awaken. That road, I walked, never returned, now it is deserted, left to the wilderness to meditate, to the youth to hesitate.
The thickness of that book may be the thickness of life. How many books you read, what kind of thickness life should have. Like a poem, on such a gentle autumn night, walking with my confidant, looking at the familiar stars, everything is drunk, even if you don't have to hold hands, you will understand the tenderness of youth.
Hibiscus flowers, blooming on the road that I once walked on when school was out, you used to wait, waiting for my eyes to purify the autumn waves of love, waiting for a nervous heart to be written into fragrant words through the impulse of youth, secretly, stoicly, reservedly let go of me, I was alone on a sober day, alone to unfold that confused love, when the love letter turned into snowflakes falling, I knew, you went to a different place, left the sad past and the same table, singing sad songs! Alone, I went to look for you again, and you actually bloomed in the autumn wind, like a virgin, pure and elegant. Is that you? The swaying golden chrysanthemum blooms in the cemetery, reflecting the love story of the once fission school year.
Still on that day when the autumn wind suddenly rises, a poem, holding a light and elegant mood of affection, you are in, or lonely. Leave, perhaps, only the moonlight can witness, slowly understand. In the end, everything became a cliché, fell into the trap, became a powder, and neutralized the illusion of each other's sensitivity. Once, I did not believe, but in the world's yin and yang wrong quest, the days became shorter, life began to turn, you can not believe, but you must not go, this is the trend, pushing you, by you, in this often wrong joke world.
I'm not there, the moment you turn around. I was not there, on the day when the magpies were preparing to move. I wasn't there, during the season of the inky fragrance. I was not there, in the struggle of returning to my heart like an arrow.
I am singing, and some people say that there is no natural sound in the impetuous world. I don't believe that in the crowded roadside, looking at the lonely souls, I understand, why is the moon so quiet? It turned out that their hearts were still. Quiet is like a book in hand, there is no life, only totem. Breeding spirits, banishing destiny. Once, each other's hands, held together, now broken, like a kite, not in this year, no longer years, only in childhood!
Peel off the heavy shell of sighs and mottles, have you seen it? Your former partner, the leaf that is now old, and the cricket from your hometown, you know? Will he still be there when you go back next year? All gone, and the eyes of ignorance and chaos, slowly confused, connected to the lights, in Ah Bao's toys, you are a mixture, but also a lonely product, good quality, just old.
Have I seen you? Maybe. Just as I have seen the wilderness, seen the morning star, seen your contemplation. Oh, our covenant of the heart, you still broke the covenant. I remember that in the summer of that year, we used to play with the green grass, and this matter, unsealed, became a lonely book, why continue?
Please be sincere