My hands in his pockets, along the familiar road walk, eyeful is bleak and desolate. The withered leaves rustle rolling along the road teeth, I was lost in the years jingling mood. I work hard, but not up to pick up. I close my eyes, shaking out the picture, let me how to paint, with the thick of autumn.
Cold market, gradually dilute the pedestrian street, decaying trees, and the wind through me, in sunshine sparse days faded. Each step, as if to hear the heart clear sigh, inadvertently shaking feeling of floating bleak taste.
The plane is late autumn Messenger, and the rhythm of the wind, hurriedly shook off a yellow. The yellow green and moist in those memories have not had time to kill was gone with the wind. It is warm flavor, is the spring sprout and summer smile is sunshine and rain, dry dry, and the swaying gracefully. That is the Indus memory, with the sun and straight and wide, with the wind chipper and lush, at the moment when the leaves falling dust, it's all gone with the wind.
And the wind, after spending a summer tree, finally tore the tenderness of the skin exposed to cold, and, a be hardly worthy of belief. At the moment, the relentless wind sweeps the tree sad, red dust in the repeated should have such a sad.
The rain came, although modest, but cold, drops like tears, like a farewell ceremony, rendering the sadness, melancholy and sentimental. At the moment the rain, no wind, only the thick, choking, off and on, a few, unbearable to look. The next rain and when can you come?
The thin stone arch radian water in the moon, go to salvage on top heavy and distant. Drizzle misty water deep sound like a sad song, to love cease abruptly. The stone bridge and our names, engraved in the years has almost the pathos of the ancient text, and the text in the story is fuzzy and clear. Hand covered, the rough texture jumping in the palm of my hand, jitter, inadvertently, drop in the water, splashing ripples layers.
The dreary sky will sorrow to talk to the lake Qiushui, settling down in tears in response to water sobs, hand accidentally intercepted a secret, cold and sticky.
Without my reflection in the water, I was watching this one melancholy in Yu Ting, blurred in the back lean and lonely.
The palm rubbing leaves as the sands of time, in a soft sigh slowly slide, broken in the years of the river, quietly. This year's autumn, not your memories, but added some unexpected sad. Fermentation of the emotions come in a throng, suddenly with a thin channel blocking.