Acacia turns into the soul of a butterfly, and the night dew is frosty and viola-colored; the autumn mood is fluttering and the sycamores are raining, and the deep love is shallow in the sand between the fingers. On a thin and cool night, I walk alone, speechless to the thousands of lights; looking left and right, I see the shadow of the car,
There is a faint human voice somewhere; under the patio, next to the rocking chair, you can watch the beautiful shadows with the gurgling blue waves; the tranquility appears, the thoughts are hidden, and the past is like smoke or a dream.