Year1
- g：
- 15g
- g：
- 24g
- g：
- 28g
-rbrbr: Compared with the spring when a hundred flowers bloom People are always a little afraid of the arrival of autumn, even though autumn is also known as the harvest season. However, in customary language, people always forget summer and winter and are accustomed to using "spring and autumn" to express a year. Spring symbolizes the morning and the beginning while autumn is undoubtedly the evening and the end. Inadvertently, autumn quietly flows away from the residual heat of late summer. People often ignore its existence inadvertently.
-rbrbr: The cool wind is silently blocked outside the door and cannot enter the world inside the door, just because the outside belongs to nature but the inside belongs to life. It wasn't until the people inside the door saw a few touches of golden leaves outside the door through the window that they noticed something. Autumn is really golden and not inferior to the green of spring. But it was a dream like a veil floating over my body and then replaced by white snow.
-rbrbr: Where does autumn go? Could it be that we have silently returned to the white pure land of the West? The geese may have migrated long ago but have forgotten that when they first migrated, they lined up in a queue of "one character" or "herringbone"; the insects are still singing monotonous and incomprehensible poetry in the fields. Through the gradually dimming golden color, one can imagine a scene: standing on the top of a towering mountain, looking down at the terraced fields below. The fields are mainly yellow, and the fields of various colors arranged in regular shapes are more like the colorful brocades delicately hand-woven by Zhuang women. ? However, the door creaked shut, and the power of nature gradually extinguished until it changed the color that should have been rich.
-rbrbr: So autumn fell at the closed door without even leaving a trace. Men Chengqiu's mirror reflects dreams on one side and reality on the other. I don’t know how many yellow leaves fell outside the door, but they were crushed into dust like silhouettes or blown to some unknown wilderness by the cool breeze. There is still loneliness inside the door, and someone is playing the flute by the window. The residual sound is more meaningful and thought-provoking than the main melody. It was a kind of waiting that seemed to be going moldy for a long time. In the numbness, I never had to worry about whether I could wait for the result.
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