Late Autumn

Late Autumn
 
The sunlight spills down
On the treetops soaked by time,
Sprinkling out the red clouds on the edge of the sky.
The mottled scars
Hide in the corners of the sight,
Quiet and silent.
 
The leaves worn out by the years
Try to hold the whole hymn of autumn.
The withered petioles,
However, can't withstand the greeting of a gust of wind.
 
The passers-by
Wipe off the wrinkles and scars on their faces,
Carve themselves into an exquisite picture,
And embed it in the eyes that seem to smile yet not.
 
The vicissitudes of this tree are named as romance,
And the elegy on the ground is called the prelude to revelry.
 
As autumn goes and winter comes,
In the long river of time, who is the witness for whom?
In the wandering of the earthly world, who is the redemption for whom?