Think of a poem by Zhang Ailing, Love of Fallen Leaves.
The big yellow leaves fall,
Slowly, it goes through the wind,
After a light blue day,
After a few days of swords and swords,
The dusty dream of gray and yellow buildings.
On the way down the mountain,
I can foresee that it will
Kiss its shadow.
Its shadow on the ground,
Come on, come on,
It's like drifting sideways again.
The leaves are waiting,
Middle-aged pretend to be silent,
However, once underground,
Golden palm
Be careful of that little shadow.
Like catching crickets—
"Well, here it is!"
On the concrete floor in Qiuyang,
Sleep quietly together, it and his love.
She said that people who know will understand.
Is this helpless and meaningless self-sufficiency?
I almost want to say, don't read it unless you mean it.