As far as the eye can see, the snowflakes waiting to be harvested are capricious. Through the window, it pulls you in front of your eyes for a while, breath to breath, face to face, and sends you into the air for a while, far away.
It's time to deliver, happy or sad with a temper of its own, becoming all crying and tears. No one can stay out of loneliness. Moonlight in my hands insomnia.
Silenced from the stars, he stared for signs of stopping. Happiness is a poem that sleeps in the depths of the years. The days hold on to the night, adjust the heart, and love until you wake up from a dream.
The leaves fell, from east to west, and one hand was the first snow, from heaven to earth. The back of life is the secret of love, don't puncture the obsession of waking up, wait for time to reply, everything can be spared.
Thousands of shyness are walking in their dreams, the mountains and rivers are carrying the south wind, the rivers growing in the body are playing guitars, and the fields are retreating to harvest, leaving only the full compassion of a song lyrics.
The crisp sound of birds is blown out of buds by the wind, and young people who experience the sun and rain build fireworks at the foot of the mountain. Seeing the rivers and mountains in a piece of paper, we walked through the memories in a mirror.
On the empty branch of the materialization of time, the stray bullet crouching down is playing its own movie. The fate of the fall flickered brightly and darkly, carrying a basket of wind and snow, to ring the winter, so that spring is no longer blurred.
The rose that blooms in your dreams and passes through time, follows a lamp through the cold, and all the days are recalled. If you can, grasp the earth with one hand and let the blue spread over your head.
Flowers in the sun are like happy words, entering all things. Snowflakes fell all over the courtyard, and the branches sticking out of the wall forgave life, allowing the ripe years to beat and enter a dream of words.