Last cicada

Last cicada

Stopped the car. Family, home, do you know me? For many years gone, what are you changing?
"Ripe--" the cicadas as autumn rains, such as the Hairspring, such as calls from heaven, no summer refreshed or summer high, seems to swallow his last breath.
I would like to carefully listen to this voice, singing and not, have disappeared in the infinity of the universe, and his whereabouts could not be found. Seasonal cold dew, this should no longer have cicadas, but his last words like a sampling across this invigorating autumn. I have static meditation, out of the car, heart gave a shake, like being stepped on. This is a piece of fertile land, said cuttings pole can grow into large trees, she dyed yellow on my skin, nourishing my flesh and blood, feeding my spirit. I'm not on my way to fear stepping on pain point-slept memory. A cicada: "ripe--" like a witch in the soul stealer, soul called travelled far from home. I was freezing cold to hold wrapped, suffocated, and seems to be drowning in time, could not help but make a shivering. I looked up, looking for the chilling, calling it out of the number of melancholy, bewildered, wake up how much thinking woman, traveler, autumn. I didn't find it, just dilute leaves sparse patches of thinning in the blue heaven to zoned to, like sticks to what, and what seems to be sworn. Persimmon tree in the courtyard also hung at the top of a greatly persimmons, persimmon red, reflecting the Sun, shining, and if a bright banner. Feeling of a beauty in her old age, idle away one's time money time assault on the heart. Just over thirty years of age should not be such a little sigh, but today that feeling strongly to hit me, beat me like a whip. I would like to return the car, was not home, forever wandering down, forever buried deep in the loess House.