The south wind is like a thin hand, gently turning the pages of old things, as if telling the dusty memories we once talked about. They're now in **??Do you remember those corners that have been forgotten by time?
Please, under the cover of night, stand quietly in front of me with that butterfly lamp in hand. Your figure looms in the dim light, like a ghost, mysterious and fascinating. You don't say a word, but it makes me feel as if I am outside the world, thousands of miles away from the red dust.
At this moment, you seem to be a silent poem, a colorless painting, which only exists in my heart. Your silence is more powerful than any words, and your presence is more real than any promise. On this silent night, only the sounds of your and my breathing mingled as if to form a beautiful symphony.
Where are the dusty memories we talked about?Do they also toggle like this south wind, telling those forgotten stories?Let's join hands at night to retrace those lost times and bring those dusty memories back to life in our hearts.
The south wind blew lightly, gently blowing the attachment from my old dream. That year, the wind on the riverbank was like a poet's pen, gently turning the pages of the book next to my pillow, which was a chapter full of anticipation after the baptism of wind and rain. I aspired to be the best in my pen, and every word was like a pearl and shining brightly. However, overnight, those unforgettable memories dissipated like smoke, leaving only that brief but beautiful moment.
After a farewell, the pear blossoms are like plain and silver-clad and fluttering, and the moonlight is quietly sinking in the west, sprinkling a desolation. We took off our red makeup, said goodbye to each other, and the day of meeting again seemed out of reach. Perhaps, in this life, we will never meet again, and we will go our separate ways;Perhaps, when we meet again, it is no longer the same face as before.
Dreams have become our only sustenance, it is like a good medicine, ** our sorrows. On that piece of paper, the ink-colored poems wander around, like a soul jumping at the fingertips, telling us our deep thoughts.
After we separated, time flies. And our emotions are still as strong as ever, and they have not faded with the passage of time. When we meet again, maybe we will sigh at the ruthlessness of the years, or maybe we will sigh at the tricks of fate.
In the whisper of the south wind, I searched for the unresolved banishment. Now, Huafa has been born, and I can still find myself in that green years. I spent time with the fireworks, and sketched those insincere pictures with the words. The wind drifts like duckweed, like the moonlight in a dream falling down the city, and like the summer south wind that I sealed, thousands of emotions are intertwined in it.
Thoughts are as light as the wind, quietly coming, and who can understand the feelings in my heart?I wrote down the tenderness of the south breeze, the romance of the sunset, the mystery of the twinkling stars, and the tranquility of the moonlight shining on the earth. Each stroke is my emotion about the world, my understanding of the four seasons, and my deep understanding of the pain of lovesickness.
Wait quietly!Wait quietly for the clouds to dissipate, like a picture scroll slowly unfolding;Quietly wait for the south wind to blow the door, as if an old friend has returned. There is a sealed peach blossom brew hidden in my heart, and the sweet and mellow taste makes people wait for it. Waiting for the moon to climb the willow tops, at that moment, my heart rippled, as if I was in a poetic dream.
If I could, I would like to burn the fireworks into the depths of my dreamsIf I could, I would let the past fall like a meteor in seven thousand nights;If you can, if the south wind knows my heart, please gently blow my dream to your city, and let me meet you in this dream. List of high-quality authors