Autumn, is a poem, a word, a painting, a song ....... It passes through the clouds and mountains, the sun, the moon and the stars, like the feathers of the geese fall in the years, diffuse on the layers of light and shadow, light to you and me. Early in the morning, the cool wind, brushed my cheeks, gently ruffled my hair, a falling leaf quietly fell on the shoulder, like a genie, promised me a bright autumn morning.
It has always been a coveted, quiet and winding path through the forest. Along the way charming, in the wind, drunk in the boundless autumn color. Temporarily put down the mind of thousands of trivial matters, put down the reserve, put down the broken chapter of the words, will be outside, bathed in the sea of nature. Or invite three or five friends, or walk alone, or quiet, or noisy, wantonly embracing the autumn colors, the party did not live up to a youth.
The depths of the fall, the grass away. A few through the yellow leaves, suddenly, fall, noiselessly, without disturbing anyone, and not be disturbed by others, quietly, gently, scattered in the half-yellow, half-green grass. Autumn color even waves, waves on the cold smoke green. In the depths of the dawn cold, as if in a flash, the autumn is deeper. The leaves on the branches, calmly from green to yellow, in a meter of sunlight, flooded with a faint warmth, through some vicissitudes, not stained with dust.
If you don't ever migrate in the light of day, who will still read the memories to tell the flow of years? With a roll of mind, and a branch of the remnants of the lotus, and the light of the sky, said the other time of the fall, the season to come to the endless deep meaning. Leaves yellow leaves green, Yan Yan in the fly, dipped in a touch of autumn wind, to the sky south of the geese say goodbye.
Walking through the autumn of the stranger, the wind of the years let the season and a deep weight. The good wood is quiet, vine flowers around the wall, occasionally there are insects and birds inhabiting the roots of the tree, the field. In the countryside of Jiangnan, there are people living on the river everywhere, the golden rice paddies undulate like waves with the wind, and on both sides of the road, the acacia trees warmly welcome you. The leaves of the trees are whirling, and when you look at the sky through the gaps in the leaves, the clouds floating in the sky, white and soft, are gradually being blown away by the wind. The past that stays in the heart, like clouds gradually far away, in the end, only a few scattered memories remain. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do that, but I'm going to be able to do it, and I'm going to be able to do it, and I'm going to be able to do it.
The most like this light, not anxious, not impatient, not tight, not slow. Like the autumn sunshine sprinkled on the body, very light and light, there is a kind of comfortable warmth. I like the tranquility of this time, such as in the ancient temples and streams, full of ethereal Zen. I like the warmth of the fall, it is like a woman sitting quietly like tea, end, smile, the pleasure handed to each visitor.
An autumnal wind, across the colorful wilderness, across the horizontal branches, on the leaves once loved, a piece of gently put down. I was strolling along the deep alleys, my footprints overlapping the footprints of the ancients, stepping on the place where they once wandered. The falling leaves are dancing, touching a pool of silence in my heart. The mottled walls tell of past events in the sadness and happiness, years of ancient trees, through the years of peak smoke is still alive, stubbornly standing in the autumn wind, as life, keep the clouds open to see the moon.
The three autumn osmanthus, and the gentle wind, fluttering, as expected, fell on the window pane in front of my case. The fragrance of osmanthus, let me this restless heart, like the clouds as light and free, such as the blue sky as clear and far away. How can I live up to this gift of autumn, I use a porcelain bottle, will pick them up one by one, the next day, do a piece of osmanthus cake, brew a pot of osmanthus wine, and you sing to the wine. The time is quiet, time has no words, stay in the corner of the mouth of the smile, into the memory of forever.
The past has come back to haunt us in the late fall, and the forests are full of color, and the mountains are full of red. Autumn sound gradually thin, the horse cries da-da-da far away, I stand at the intersection of the years, fold a branch of Di flowers, in the autumn wind at the beginning of the place, the style of solo, quietly listening to the ballad of the fall.
You like the autumn wind came and went, through the place, leaving all the way charming. The day you are there, the cold is like a flower. Years of mountains and rivers, the sea of people, I am in the long days of autumn water, in the intersection you must pass, waiting for the next encounter. The time of the old years, long moss. If the years can be written as a letterhead, it will be stamped with a turquoise postmark, folded branches of plum wine, warm a pot of cool moonlight, towards the depths of the birth year delivery.
Autumn water is long, the heart is light, all the way to pick up the lightness of the fall, look at the reed flowers such as snow, branches shake the waves. Look at the Gesang flowers bloom a few times, whether the beauty remains the same. Autumn, is a word, open in the quiet of the words, the pen is a poem, the pen is a painting, own a wordless Zen and serenity. Those clean and gentle time, there is a kind of far away from the prosperity of the openness and tranquility. I'm not talking, I'm keeping quiet, in a cut of smoke and fire in the dust, the day into a poem, simple and exquisite.