作者：佚名

Silence, are lonely, alone on the empty slowly west wing.
Looked up days, only one curved like the hook of the company.
Lower the head to look, see buttonwood isolated and lonely in the yard, deep courtyard was enveloped in the autumn cold and desolate.
That cut cut constantly, also the principle, reason not clear, let a person afflicted with, it is of national subjugation.
The long melancholy wrapped around the heart, but is another kind of an ineffable painful.

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