The beautiful hibiscus sings and dances lightly, tying my hair into a bun, and filling my clothes with fragrance. The colorful clothes ceased to sound, and the roar of thunder rose again. The one-year-old flowers are in good condition, smiling and talking.
The autumn wind from the Western Mountains rises at dusk, blowing in my courtyard and filling my skirt with flowers. The fragrance disappears and the jade dies, and I have no intention of looking at it again. The wind of the year is the most ruthless, the rain is sad and the tears are lingering.
Although the flowers bloom beautifully, the west wind is too ruthless, just like love, it is too late to cherish when it passes.