In the countryside, on the path, hold a flower umbrella. There seemed to be a soft sound of footsteps lingering in my ears. Looking at the raindrops flowing silently in the heart river, the raindrops have crystallized countless exquisite and clear times, and those visible and invisible emotions gradually slide into their own trajectory like a drizzle.
Sit quietly on a spring night and listen to life. That is the clear language of the heart, that is the true meaning of the understanding, that is the free breath of the gorgeous and colorful soul interpretation. Like a cloud of flowing clouds fluttering and condensing, turning into spring rain in a dream;Like a stream, graceful and soft, waiting in the depths of the silent night;Like a bright moon, it is pure and pure, high in the clear space but stays in the bottom of my heart. Like a touch of Tang style, let the body and mind calm in the fragrance of ink;It seems to be a Song language, so that the feelings are lingering in the years;Like a meta song, let the soul be intoxicated in the music!
The spring rain veins, the willows and singing, the peach blossoms blooming on the other side, the shy incense swaying with the wind, just like the bright makeup in the old wind and moon, swaying full of poignant clouds and smoke in the past, gorgeous in the south of the Yangtze River in March, blurred with memories full of eyes.
The years are flicked, the flowers are late, strolling in the memory of time and space, being blown up by the breeze from time to time, shaking off a tender water-like picture, thin in the poetry of Tang Feng and Song Yu, pulling up the curtain of the years. Aimless thoughts wander in the field of exile, and the slightest sorrow folds the tears of the past. A few drops of tears buried in the dust, where the pen is copied, how many thin shadows caress the strings, and under the cold moon and clear light, a desolate song is played. A few blurs, a few hesitations, the light passing time of Shaohua was firmly remembered by the scenery along the way, graffiti half dreamed and half awake of the green years, inadvertently, dyed with a few wisps of sadness of memory.
After a thousand years, the dark dust is disturbed. Where is the lovesickness, a song on the piano, and a light smile and infatuation. Sitting alone in the forest, the smoke is green, the colorful butterflies fly away, don't be frightened by the mandarin ducks, and listen to Jiang Tao quietly at the beginning of the night. Plain clothes and white clothes, swaying in the bamboo forest, and tuning the piano in the light makeup. The red candle incense is damaged, the old hatred at the end of the world, the strings are broken, and the chaos is three thousand obsessions.
It's another year of spring, time is full of fragmented past, unbearable to look back, pick up a period of old years, and give memories a warm home. The remnant sun is red, the fine willows in front of the door, several degrees of wind and rain are far away, few thoughts, the years are traceless, and then look back, the dust is like sand, and it is more sorrowful.
A window of spring moon, bead curtain shadow, watching the late wind rush, willow branches swaying, adding a period of sorrow, releasing the scroll, condensing the window, in the red dust, who touched the heart in the Song Dynasty?The clear moonlight, like a clear stream wandering in the bottom of the heart, touches the heartstrings;Like a gentle clear word, it flows slowly. A trace of romance is a ray of coolness, the melancholy of exile is lingering, and all the voices of the heart are silent and watchful in time. The smile hides behind the scenery, and the eyes of the night are damp.
Looking at it, the face of the season is still the same, but those yesterday that have been bounced off are in the forgotten corners of time, awakened in the tenderness in the heart, counting the little clouds and smoke of the past, and never forgetting to leave a trace of elegance. The thoughts flowing on the tip of the pen brought the fragrance of the past, and also looked through the smiling flowers. I put pen to paper, but I strayed into the depths of memory, looking for it, but I couldn't see the end.
The pen is dry and the ink is dry, and the words I want to say and write have been blown away by the wind. All the worries and grievances go away in the most beautiful manner. There is no trace of the passing years, only the shallow smile is still hanging on the face of the years, faintly exuding a wisp of fragrance.