Look at the sun in a solemn and firm tone
From distant seasons, fallen leaves blow horns.
I think I should praise autumn.
Praise the clouds with withered flowers.
That tall vilen has a branch that he doesn't want to answer.
At the same time, the wind made a melancholy sound.
I appreciate the bright sunshine.
Row a canoe woven with clouds and swing to a charming dream.
Sprinkle colorful light on five continents.
I praise this autumn, which is the season for people.
They share the harvest season equally.
But winter is not overwhelming, and the leaves are silent in the form of answers.
At this time, winter is being driven away by a flock of gray birds.
And a group of defected dead leaves swept his feelings.
The naked moon trained the stars to hover in front of my hammer.
In this joyful season, in an atmosphere full of wine.
Breathing is longer than language, and sound extends endlessly.
I heard the long-lost cry of autumn.
Go through it, autumn.