It's about to get old.
Maybe you haven't found someone with the same heart yet.
Spend your whole life busy and busy.
Not even a single bit of time was wasted.
What a long road, full of hardships along the way.
There are few people in the world like him.
There is no other ambition, one mind to focus.
Do one thing, love someone.
Even if I didn't get true love in the end).
If someone else had changed, he would have gone long ago.
Why bother to be as earnest as he was.
Even passing through the uninhabited path has been repeatedly avoided.
Look carefully ahead and backward.
A lot of great opportunities were missed in vain.
People come and go around him, all kinds of faces.
Batch after batch of skimming shots.
But he doesn't usually take a second look.
He is neither lazy nor ruthless.
Rather, it embraces a secret palace of love.
There have always been people who silently worship in their hearts.
Don't look at him if he doesn't enter the temple, he doesn't enter the temple.
Don't worship Taoist temples, let alone donate and release lives.
He has always had his own admiration.
Perseverance without regrets, the most beautiful vision.
A little bit of progress every day, closer to the heart.
Although he wasted his time when he was young.
The old man is still working hard and dedicated.
Even if the temples are white, no effort is spared.
He is the one who can bring silence and.
The Wasteland of Sorrow plays into the ocean man.
In the face of the night, he is as strong as a bullock.
Push the night out of a crack.
Tear off the rags to see the dawn, the warm sun.
Poured down and smashed to the chest.
There was a burst of drums.
Although the old age is approaching, the passion and motivation are still there.
The rhythm is full of metallic sounds.
Tacit understanding with others, as if reading synchronously.
A poem about mountains and seas.
Waves rolled in from afar, under the virtuoso.
The waves churned, and slowly receded.
Accumulate strength and start all over again, spread out.
Endless tides, as fine as silver.
Bit by bit, it becomes an overwhelming tide music.
Distant, a voice questioned.
Will there be poetry when old age is approaching? Yes.
There are famous stories of youth everywhere.
He doesn't stop looking, even in the end.
Nothing, but as best I could.
It will be a joy to take root deeper.
The more difficult things are in the world.
Doing it handily is the greatest satisfaction.
Even when old age is approaching, we still work tirelessly.
It's not so much that he loves to work, but that he loves to work.
From the daily watering, I heard.
Everything sprouts, small green leaves.
Like 10,000 little hands excitedly greeting each other.
Happiness is surging in the posture of flowers.