Facing the wind
Withered in the boundless city
Huahuala
Like a veteran
The last array
The golden ears of wheat are raised high.
Fall gently again
Look into the distance
Like a flag
What is missing?
Take off what.
sun
I seem to be hungry, too
The heat washes the ears in summer.
Time is a hunter.
three hundred days
Covering 300 colors
Shout as much as you want.
If you want to
Don't look at all.
Can also hit the nail on the head
Its sadness and happiness
If, youth is back.
If, cyan is the bottom.
All the stupid land in the world,
Is its confidant.
I just hope,
High above the master.
Can let this seed go.
In the coming year,
I will bring a new story.
There is no fruit.