Modern poetry recitation should not be too long, but shorter

In September, the author's happy lion entered September. The breeze stood on tiptoe, swept the top of the tree and dyed some leaves red. A string of bamboo swallows, insects sing in autumn, fields are everywhere, and sickles are pointed. The cattle began to get busy. I thought of that land, and those fathers and brothers who spread themselves low walked into the fields. I heard the sun sowing seeds in sunflowers, and slugs drummed on peas. This is the sound of autumn. Cotton was dressed up by rosy clouds one after another, and the old corn smiled and told his brothers about the good harvest, the unspeakable rain, the wet autumn in September, the wet village and the fragrant soil. We have harvested the years, the wind of the sunset and the laughter.