A beloved girl is leaving me, and I want to write a poem to bring her back, and I want a poem to bring her home.

In the clear autumn, the cold suddenly urges the willows, the new leaves rustle, and there are countless stars in the evening. Before dawn, the jade plate was hung on the tip of Emei last night. The wind swept across the river, and the flowers withered and fell all over the ground, and there was no way to reopen them. Can other mountains ask this? The green makeup is bitter and lovesick. Love the nearest flower-lovesickness