A kind of leisurely sorrow

The passing years will flow through another autumn, life seems to be the same as before, only the years have covered a layer of shallow vicissitudes. Time will eventually wait ashore, cannot cut the messy lovesickness, who is wandering in whose prime? Lingering in whose distant place? Two lines of morning flowers and evening gatherings, a song of the setting sun and evening bells, waiting for a season or waiting for a story? The scenery that passed by, besides caring for oneself, no one will cherish it. The inexhaustible coming and going of spring and autumn, a kind of idle worry, wants to speak but stops, in fact, there is some concern, it has never only appeared in dreams, some understanding, has been left in the heart from the beginning.