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As the early autumn dusk settled in and the sun disappeared,
the sky gradually darkened. Alone, I listened to soothing and melancholic
music. My mood, like the damp air, became filled with sadness and
melancholy.
Perhaps it was the onset of autumn that caused it. All living things have
stopped growing, and the hustle and bustle of summer has passed. Only the
quiet waiting for the first frost, and the melancholy scene of autumn leaves
swept away by the wind.
I love the falling leaves the most. When I walk alone in the small path
covered with fallen leaves under the sunset, surrounded by mist. The beauty
and romance of the scene make me yearn, wait, and hope. However, when the
leaves really start to fall, a sense of desolation and loneliness arises,
and the repressed emotions within me ripple like autumn water.
I do love autumn. I love its quietness after the dust settles, its elegance
like a lady, the romanticism of fallen leaves floating around like a dress,
its detachment from the world, and the daydreaming of wisps of smoke in the
vast sky and earth.
I have also written many poems about autumn. Autumn is the time when
swallows and geese yearn for home. No matter which poetry collection you
open, there are thoughts of ancient people. Such as Fan Zhongyan's "The
fallen leaves are fragrant and drift, night is quiet, and the cold sound is
broken. My sorrowful heart has been broken and I can't get drunk. Tears are
formed before the wine." Or "The wine enters my sorrowful heart, and turns
into tears of lovesickness." Perhaps autumn is the season of ancient
people's lovesickness! However, the one they miss is separated by mountains
and rivers. When the fallen leaves float by and the night is as cold as
water, a sense of loneliness turns into sorrow in the heart like a flood.
So, tears flow when looking at the falling leaves, and conversations with
the wild geese, even if just a gust of wind passes by, will carry away the
unspoken words of love.
However, the beautiful dreams of poets were drowned in the cruel reality.
Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai, who were celebrated as butterfly lovers, were
just ideal worlds of ancient people. When it collided with reality, the
dream collapsed instantly, disappearing like smoke. Only the emotions of
autumn leaves fluttering remained in the poems that shone in the long years.
"Facing the evening rain across the misty river". The sigh of that wandering
scholar who had no fame or fortune in the emperor's palace, who committed
suicide in the alley of fireworks and wine, came from a thousand years ago
on an autumn rainy evening. It resonated with the melancholic rhythm,
echoing in the bleak autumn colors. |
