What can I say about autumn? I am alone in the wilderness, even if I laugh at it, no one pays attention to my insignificant sadness like grass roots.
A basin of twilight water splashed at my feet, and the sun in front of me was washed cold in the blink of an eye. I have to put down my straw hat and leave this place. A group of fallen leaves are hurrying along. If I am late, I will fall behind them with a branch in my hand-this is an autumn branch.
I got lost in front of a sunken lake. This is the lake in autumn. In my autumn, I only feel sadness in joy. The soil in my hand turned from my fingers to dust. I am slowly crushing some impetuous things-last year's scarecrow still stood in the old place, but in the lonely autumn, I can't repeat the mistakes of the past. What can I say about autumn? What can I say about autumn? Anyone who sees me crosses the other shore and turns into a grain of sand in the mighty autumn wind.
Autumn trees, clouds go and stay in the air, the season is full of shadows and cold predictions, and the wind blows away the big birds. The silence of a tree is pitiful and terrible. The reason why a tree loses weight is the reason why it loses weight all autumn. Except for the crops and roads in the country, the whole wilderness is intermittently crowded with lonely watchmen. They didn't say a word or even look at each other. Looking up makes the sky higher and the birds bigger.
It makes people sad, but they can't stay. Falling leaves are like snow and like a swan song, as if life is like a dance, and the endless dance comes to an abrupt end.
The weather is cold and cool.
In autumn rice fields, from the early morning, the sound of a sickle woke my ears and passed through cities, streets and an open-air shopping mall.
Our land is moist and fertile, our rice is golden and mature, the cool sun rises along the girl's hair tip, and the rice wave is held in her arms by a sickle. Last year's straw is still tough this year, and the beautiful girl is like a beautiful autumn, which reminds me of a pale yellow freehand painting. I love labor but didn't cut the rice to the end, so I lay on the ridge of the field and was laughed at by the autumn insects in a puddle. I chewed a juicy grass root and didn't care. The green rice grains with squinted eyes are fuller than the kettle filled with clear water. I fantasize about this city. I don't know whether rice can grow on the asphalt road there or stand in the field of life. I am a lonely rice ball. No one jumped out of the carriage and took me away. No one forced you to grow up in this land. Just like this meal with no regrets, I waited patiently. In autumn, the rice fields are empty.
Autumn, last night, a passing mouse stepped on the washbasin, and the whole yard clanged. The night is quiet, and I can hear the gasps of leaves. I remembered the clothes that had been confiscated on the clothesline. The TV had been turned off long ago, but the fan was still turning. My dream was still on the slope of my hometown ten years ago. I think lazily: I will wear a long-sleeved shirt tomorrow.
In autumn, I was caught in a rain unexpectedly, like a delicate horse that suddenly found the hoofbeat and ran cautiously. Fearless tourists walk through wet streets, discerning boots and puddles. The supposed face is warmer than a piece of ice. The dreamer and the dreamer saw the bronze number, which was polished intermittently by the rain. If I guess correctly, the last house number is. Is a good peeping pupil, in the border between the city and the countryside, found that people out of the night, or in the rain, or riding a bronze horn back to their hometown.