The autumn wind is thin and cool, blowing the dream of falling flowers.
Leaves, like butterflies, are swept away from the branches by the autumn wind, fall into the embrace of the earth and return to dust.
Autumn rain, leaving countless thoughts, sang the farewell song of autumn and lingering thoughts.
Through the blur of a window, I listened to the heartbeat of autumn rain and closed my sadness.
Sadness is the tears of autumn, full of waiting loneliness.
Falling flowers fly through the autumn rain and are branded on the title page of time.
What about withered love?
Is it a lingering autumn rain? Or has it turned into sadness?
Why, through the coolness of the world, I can't touch the remains of love?
However, the "disappearance" of love, like this continuous autumn rain, seems endless. ...
Talking in the autumn night
Autumn wind, night travel.
Lift the veil of missing and throw it into the frost.
Miss, thin into a crescent moon, split the sadness.
Tonight, along the track of memory, salvage a feeling.
Every fragment is a prism, reflecting sadness and joy, even enthusiasm and indifference.
Prosperity, love is like a dream.
Who remembers the initial surprise? Who still has the initial heart?
Love has dried up on the branches of years.
Love breaks the horizon.
Looking back, there is only one place in Bai Yueguang, like a lonely place, which was cooled by the autumn wind.
Spread plain notes, plant thoughts, and I wander in a love poem.
How much effort does life need to make to cross the sea of missing and forget the sadness of love?
The past is like smoke, drifting away with the wind.
It is another cool autumn wind, and the fallen leaves are blown away by the wind like the past that can't be caught.
I use chrysanthemum to make tea, clearing away heat and toxic materials, and detoxifying love.
I use poetry to warm and dry the tide of missing.
Over the years, I nailed myself to the wound of love and stood like a weeping rose.
Pain, like a bell in the twilight, passes through the wind and rain of years and knocks on the heart.
Leaning against the window, looking at the moon is like water, wetting the heart of the night.
A tear, splashing the ripples of missing. ...