I want to hear about the autumn mood, but no one knows it. I murmur with my hands behind my back and knock on the east fence. Who can hide with me alone and proudly? Is it too late to bloom? How lonely is the dew in the garden and the frost in the garden? Is it possible to miss lovesickness if the wild goose is stung? Mo Yan has nothing to talk about in the world, why not explain it for a while?
I hope it will be different from others. This poem is written as a copy to express the author's inner feelings and emotions towards the content of the work.