As long as the peach blossoms are in spring, they will be fragrant. But love cannot withstand the coolness of time and passes quietly.
The thin coolness in the fingers swept away everything, taking away the warmth at the same time. The cool wind beat the strong love. Finally, there was a pool of shattered love lying on the ground incomplete and helpless. It didn't feel like love, or it had never been like that. . .
The autumn wind is late in arriving, and it is already chilly. What's the point of adding a glass of wine? Isn't it better to sit alone under a withered tree, with pear blossoms carrying rain, and begonias condensing dew, feeling sad?