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乍暖还寒,桐叶纷飞,独步空巷。孑然一人生活在这北方的城市中,看梧桐叶憔悴地从树上剥落,一片片的叶带来一阵阵的伤,飘落了心中的希望。三年,为伊消得人憔悴的三年。三年前,秋菊、梧桐、石榴构成了你我的节日,如今秋菊依旧绽放,梧桐叶仍在伤心欲绝地凋落,可石榴,似乎不那么甜美了。我竖起画板,描绘这哭桐泪叶洒幽径的画面,这画里,没有你。你曾是我那年秋天所有的画的主角,三年前有你的画总那么鲜艳明亮,这失去你的画,为何变得如此憔悴不堪?
Turns warm again, Tong leaf swirling, Alone empty-lanes. Solitude living in this city in the north, the Indus leaves haggardly splattered from the tree, a piece of leaves bring waves of injuries, falling hearts of hope. Three years, three years of haggard Iraqi people. Three years ago, Chrysanthemum, Sycamore, pomegranate formed you and my festival. Now Chrysanthemum is still blooming. Sycamore leaves still fall heartbroken, pomegranate does not seem so sweet. I put up a drawing board, depicting this crying tears Tong tears sprinkling path of the picture, this painting, without you. You used to be the protagonist of all the paintings of that autumn. Three years ago your total paintings were so bright and vivid. Why did you lose your paintings and become so emaciated?