The good life(Outer three).
The good life is-
Outside the window, there are four seasons.
In the window, there are three meals that are served on time.
The good life is-
Every fruit on the tree.
There are so many leaves to accompany you.
The good life is-
From a bunch of banal words.
A few beautiful words were interspersed.
The good life is-
A beautiful magazine made of flowers in spring.
In the summer, there is a long story written on the grass**.
Autumn has a seasonal leaflet with leaves.
Winter with snow and frost writes a message for next year.
The good life is-
The small garden was named "Red Whisk".
The small vegetable garden was named "Rusty Nishiki".
Give the trail a "style" name.
Give the creek a "beautiful" name.
The rose bush that crossed the fence was named "Princess Sissi".
The cherry blossoms are called "Roman Holiday".
That Huang Yueji is directly called "Happy Yellow Handkerchief".
Present what you have
I'm reading Whitman's poetry collections.
You say, you like me.
I looked up, smiled, and thought about it.
I said, I like flowers.
You will bloom a spring flower.
I said, I like shade.
You've lasted a summer of shade.
I said, "I like fruit."
You hang up the red fruit in the fall.
I said, I like plain.
You shook off the leaves for a long winter.
I closed Whitman's book of poems.
Stand up and approach you.
Present what you have
The spring flowers of a tree, the summer coolness of a tree.
The red fruit of a tree, the plain light of a tree.
Porcelain vase
I pretended I couldn't speak.
Just listen to your whispers in the middle of the night.
You add different flowers to me.
I'll take care of the branches.
On this day, when you add plum branches.
Accidentally, it shattered me.
Look at the pity in your eyes.
I use double pity for fear to scratch your fingers.
I'm talkative.
Fragments of varying sizes are what I have in mind.
Now you are heard, and you are content.
Even though you're only indulging in his paper romance.
Experienced thread regiments
These old letters know my youthful ideals.
These early notes know my initial desire.
These old articles know my youthful writing.
These old newspapers and magazines know my taste for reading.
The things of the past are the threads of experience.
Every time I smoke an old object, I love it.
Every time I smoke an old thing, flowers fall and bloom.
At this time, a sentence from the old letter was drawn.
Winding, winding, trying to wrap up an emotional thread.
The sun went around me with some golden erotic feelings.
Fluffy thread ball, warm and kissing.