Time is like a flower swaying on the branches, the wind passes by, the prosperity is prosperous, and the fall falls.
The seasons come and go, spring, autumn, winter and summer, and time never stops.
The beauty of time can be a flower, a tree, or a landscape.
The river of time flows, the story of time is wasted, some people write chapters, some people describe the mountains and rivers.
Whether it is the wind and snow along the way, or the trek through the mountains and rivers all the way, open a new chapter when the peak and loop turn, and continue to write infinite possibilities at the intersection of life.
Chasing life, chasing years, chasing the unintentional wind, it seems that you can never stop, but there will always be a little new idea for you to stop.
Time is not in a hurry, and the years come and go.
Yesterday's wind, the old rain, those swaying flower branches, those regretful stories, mottled on the wall of time, engraved into the charm of the years dried.
With a broken pen, I wrote the past, and the writing stopped, the words did not reach the meaning, the sentences did not form paragraphs, as if I had written a lot, and it seemed that nothing had been written.
The red dust is so deep, the years are so long, there are so many stories, what can be remembered is always a moment, and what can be forgotten is more.
Years later, the mountains and rivers have changed, and the flowers of the season are still blooming and falling in the season, constantly staging the ups and downs of thousands of years.
Who still remembers, that year, I passed by your world and met Yin Ziyanhong, which was gorgeous in life.
Who cares, that January, I wrote a poem, writing the unspoken love into the absurdity of the world.
Some people laugh when they read it, and some people don't even understand it.
Who still likes those bits and pieces, in that day after day, some emotions are growing, and some love is deep.
The story to be continued, like an untitled poem.
There is no beginning, it doesn't matter the ending, some people meet in Hongchen, and some people are scattered in the sea of people. Some people look back, and some people start a new page.
Time, this old man, every time we meet again, only I still remember those pasts, don't fall into the dust with the treetops.
So, what's the reluctance.
The years come, and we take it in stride.