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poet

The cold wind of the earth

gnawing on the bones of autumn

Standing next to the poet and waiting was the crow

Drooling

The dew of the night

But the psalmist drank the dew

Until the crow dies of thirst

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Note: A few poets are like the cold wind, gnawing on the depression of autumn, having the days of the night, the night is like a crow, but the poet turns the dew of the night into water, and drinks it until dawn, and the night is gone

The poet of "The Song of Things" is in the middle of the hand, please wait a moment,

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