The autumn leaves of Jinjing sycamore are yellow, and the bead curtains are not rolled up by the night frost. The night wind blows slowly, falling lightly on the blinds like fluff, as if the elves are whispering, and like the unwillingness of late summer, rolling up the fallen leaves,
Crying out bursts of sadness.
The moonlight is like flowing water, splashing on every leaf and petal, and a thin blue mist floats...