豆叶黄,谷又熟。中秋节刚过,连绵的秋雨就至,被雨雾笼罩的乡野,无边无际地寂静,唯有雨脚在沙沙行走。戴着一顶斗笠,背着一个背篓,拿着一把银镰,从繁华的初秋走来,走过丰硕的中秋,向萧瑟的深秋走去,像一株老腰了的高粱。那秋雨的身影,伴随着我一路前行,直至消失在了那乡野的尽头。前方出现一座静穆的古城,雄浑壮阔的城垣,肃立挺拔的马面,绵延凸凹的女墙,昂扬高亢的城楼,一如既往的雄姿,哦,让我又见平遥。 Bean yellow, valley and cooked. Mid-Autumn Festival has just passed, a continuous autumn rain to the countryside enveloped by rain and fog, boundless silence, only the rain feet in the sand to walk. Wearing a hat, carrying a basket, carrying a silver sickle, came from the bustling early autumn, walked through the rich Mid-Autumn Festival, went to the bleak autumn walk, like an old waist of the sorghum. That autumn figure, with me all the way forward, until it disappeared in the countryside of the end. Appear in front of a quiet ancient city, magnificent walls, standing upright horse surface, rolling convex female walls, high-spirited tower, as always, majestic, oh, let me see Pingyao again.