All the good love in this world, don't let it go when you meet it. The lake water awakened by the spring breeze slapped the back of holding hands. The birdsong that wakes up in the morning rushes to a long-lasting love.
Approaching again and again, moving away again and again, the name full of tears rolls in the eye sockets, and every drop gushes out, a sea gushes out, how do you know that good love can be so vast.
It's nice to have the wind blowing in and it's cool all summer. The language like ice silk fell, and no matter how hot and dry the dialect was, it could fall asleep silently in the sound of a warm reading.
Many times, I want to write a poem for you, to measure the snow-melted streams and the past that fell into my heart, to find the sky that is supported by the rain many times, and the confusion that has been walked through.
I can't imagine that the breath of a green grass can soak the clouds and the moon for 8,000 miles, straighten out the intertwined soil, and let love grow a red torch like sorghum.
The lake in the moonlight is expressed as if it were falling in a heavy snowfall, in a painting of hers. The snow of mercy is as green as a pine, and the green is in good love, embroidering spring with one stitch at a time.