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The seasons reciprocate

    • 47 posty
    September 20, 2019 7:23 AM BST

    The seasons reciprocate, spring comes to autumn. It seems to be just a matter of blinking, but also a year of fall. Some people compare spring to a girl, I think autumn is the same. If spring is representative of liveliness and beauty, then the temperament of autumn is melancholy and calm Parliament Cigarettes. In the setting sun, the autumn looks at the distant eyes, far away and embarrassing. Autumn has been synonymous with bleak since ancient times. The flowers have fallen red, the leaves are flying, and there are some unreasonable births. Walking along the edge of the playground, looking up to see the autumn wind rolling up the leaves, suddenly some stolen goods hurt, no reason, I do not know where the emotion came from. What is autumn? This is bleak, so embarrassing. I stood in the falling leaves and faintly remembered my grandmother. I remember that in the past, she always held a broom, silently, slowly sweeping the leaves, in the small courtyard of my hometown, in such a clear autumn Carton Of Cigarettes. At that time, I was young and ignorant. I ran under the tree and swayed for a while. The leaves were like butterflies and squatted down. Grandma sighed and said something that I couldn��t understand at the time: "Yeah, like a human being, will eventually fall." After sighing, it will no longer be swept, muttering: "Ye is falling, let it be rooted. After many years, I realized what my grandmother was worried about. She was afraid that the time was too short and the time was not long. She was afraid that she would be like a fallen leaf. Milk, you are married to a hometown from afar. Years, I didn��t return to my homeland. She stayed here safely and silently pulled the child up. Now that the child is older, she is far away from home, and Grandpa always goes out to go to the streets. She is alone, lonely, how Grandma hasn��t read any books, but she knows more. She tells me myths, tells the bridge, and talks about Meng Po Tang. I was ignorant at the time, I don��t know why she suddenly showed vicissitudes in her eyes. My parents came home, I asked my father, what is the bridge, Meng Po soup. Dad frowned and asked who I said, I said it was grandma Marlboro Lights. Dad whispered, how to tell the children these. The voice is not big, grandma I heard it. She lowered her head and returned to her room silently. Only in the future, I can no longer hear the myth that she told me. I wrapped her around to talk about the bridge. She sighed and said, I will tell you about Little Red Riding Hood. Every fall, she looks at the deciduous gods more and more time. She still picked sweet-scented osmanthus flowers for me to make osmanthus cakes when I was hungry, and picked me pomegranates. But she became more and more silent. Now that I am leaving, I can't imagine her loneliness alone. Is she still so silent? I can't imagine how she is doing this way without words. In the fall I am not, is she still looking at the leaves? I knelt down, picked up a fallen leaf and gently caught it in the book. I don't know if it's a coincidence. The leaf is written by a grandmother's story. When the text is written, there is a leaf falling outside the window. I vaguely remember that there was a female lyricist in the Song Dynasty who was accompanied by a glass of memory of wine, and drank it under the window. He wrote a paragraph, and the person was more than a thin flower, and entrusted to the year of care. And I, in the autumn of a cool breeze, wrote a story about the fallen leaves, the pen is falling on the paper, only the time is immortal.
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