The autumn wind sighs chill, the air turns cold,
Grass and trees shiver, dew becomes frost,
A flock of swans take leave, geese head south.

I think of you, my wandering guest, and my heart breaks,
Restless, yearning to return to my homeland,
Why do you linger, lodged in some distant place?

I, your humble wife, guard this empty room alone,
Sorrow comes, I think of you and dare not forget,
Unknowingly, tears fall and soak my clothes.

I take up the lute, strike the strings in the clear Shang mode,
A short song, softly hummed, cannot sustain.

The bright moon shines pure upon my bed,
The Milky Way flows westward, the night is not yet done.

The Cowherd and the Weaver Maid gaze at each other from afar—
What sin of yours deserves such a river’s divide?
— “Song of Yan,” by Cao Pi

This autumn has been short on sunshine, exceptionally cold and dreary. The Frost Descent has already passed, and I somehow never went out to take any photographs.

This poem is a true classic, yet so few people around me have ever read it. What can I say? Who’s to blame but myself for drifting away from poetry and distant horizons?

I look at the sweet potato chips my junior sister gave me, sitting on the table—salty and sweet, so tempting. Life seems to change so little, yet each year is somehow different from the last.

Since ancient times, whether common folk or the high and mighty—why can’t any of us transcend our lowly passions and talk a little less about love?

燕歌行
曹丕

秋风萧瑟天气凉，草木摇落露为霜，群燕辞归鹄南翔。

念君客游思断肠，慊慊思归恋故乡，君何淹留寄他方？

贱妾茕茕守空房，忧来思君不敢忘，不觉泪下沾衣裳。

援琴鸣弦发清商，短歌微吟不能长。

明月皎皎照我床，星汉西流夜未央。

牵牛织女遥相望，尔独何辜限河梁。

今年的秋天缺少阳光，格外阴冷，已过霜降，我居然没去拍照。

这首诗非常经典，周围读过的人却也非常少，无可奈何，谁让我脱离了诗和远方？

看着桌上师妹给的红薯片，咸甜诱人，这生活，好像没啥变化却又年年不同。

自古以来，无论平民百姓还是达官显贵，为何都不能脱离低级趣味，少去谈情？