Sitting in the corner of late autumn, listening to the depressed call of the autumn wind, watching the fallen leaves gradually rot, those breaths, those wounds, and those records that cannot be recorded with voice confuses hearing and vision. I miss you, there is no need to use a gorgeous vocabulary, nor do I have to search for traces in Tang poetry and Song lyrics. There is only the letter paper on the desk, which is torn and written, and torn and tear it down.
Every time I miss you, you become the lotus in front of the Buddha. The light makes the lushness of memory condense quickly, allowing the cycle of autumn to be broken, and allowing the wind to move through the eternal chant and laughter. Every time I miss you, I will paste the broken memories I picked up one by one, so that when the darkness comes, I will be more peaceful and warm.
Falling leaves cover the hurried steps, and the sunset stretches the figures coming and going. The late autumn wind bit by bit tearing the melancholy accumulated over the years. I miss you, the real impulse is the passion that burns the wilderness, the banner of longing is flying on the yellowed earth, and the clear eyes of the first encounter.
A person in autumn, a wisp of thoughts blowing by the autumn wind gently folds the vastness of memory. Miss you, I buried my wishful thinking in autumn, filled with the fragrance of my soul. I just want to carry the coldness of the world with my weak shoulders, so that this love will no longer be sad. I just want to use delicate brush flowers to dye a stack of lovesick hand scrolls, so that time can kiss the corners of the lips, quiet and calm...
