Time flows like poetry, and seasons turn like verses.
From the lingering night, a new sun rises; spring quietly slips into the old year. Firecrackers bid farewell to the past, and warm winds bring renewal. Lanterns bloom like a thousand trees in the night, only to fall like stars.
Spring rain falls during Qingming, and travelers walk with heavy hearts. Yet swallows return, pear blossoms fall, and the world turns. A brief shower, a few flowers—spring passes too soon. “Do you know?” whispers the poet. “The green grows lush, the red fades thin.”
Autumn winds stir the Wei River, and fallen leaves fill Chang’an. Every tree wears autumn colors, every hill glows in sunset. The finest season, says the wise, is when oranges turn gold and pomelos green. But autumn winds meddle—they redden the maple leaves and whiten our hair.
Leaves fall endlessly, the Yangtze River rolls on. Storm clouds gather before the Double Ninth, and winter plum blossoms already carry spring’s promise.
Life mirrors the seasons. Flowers bloom in their time, leaves fall when they must. Do not mourn the passing of spring or autumn. Instead, listen to the wind, savor the light, and cherish each moment. Let poetry live in your heart, and beauty in your eyes.