At the end of the autumn mountain,
a pair of honeysuckle,
forget the glitz and glamor of the world.
Open quietly,
Quietly and elegantly.
Not competing with the sweet-scented osmanthus for fragrance,
not competing with the bamboo,
a narrow footing,
under a touch of autumn sun.
Admiring oneself alone,
not admiring others.
Smilingly and proudly facing the uncertainties,
let the cold wind blow,
follow the cold rain.
I am honeysuckle,
a pair of small honeysuckles.