The light from your tears carry a bit of hurt in its delicateness.

The deathly pale curved moon hooked to the past.

The night is too long, forming into frost.

Who is in the attic?

The ice-cold hopelessness.

The rain lightly rebounds off the vermillion red window.

My whole life on the paper has been blown into a mess by the wind.

The dream is in the distance.

Changes into a trace of fragrance with the wind, dispersing your appearance.

The chrysanthemum flower is ruined, hurt all over the ground.

Your smile has already faded.*

The flowers fall, people are heartbroken.

My worries quietly dripping.

The North wind is disorderly; the night is not finished yet.

Your shadow cannot be cut, leaving me with loneliness on the surface of the lake, becoming a couple.

The flower, it is already nightfall.

Floating downwards, glittering, languishing in the way of the world.

Fate cannot bear.

Sad, don't cross the river.

Heart and Autumn broken into two halves.

I'm scared you can't get to shore, faltering for a lifetime.

Whose country?

The sound of horses' hooves is hysterical.

I'm wearing martial attire, roaring with the convulsions of nature.

The sky is slightly light.

You softly sigh.

Melancholy in one night, such suave and moving.