Standing under the eaves. Listen quietly.
The sound of rain falling on red dust.
Tick Tick.
Touch the bottom of your heart. Soft heartstrings.
The blue bricks and tiles of the old house.
Convergence of the curtain of rain.
Meandering down. Carve out one after another.
Wrinkles of bluestone slabs.
Like an ancient book.
Sealed with the memory of history.
Night. Smudged in the rain.
Rain. Flying under the raging wind.
Thoughts travel through time.
Falling with the sound of rain.
Splash with heartwave ripples.
Thousands of sorrows are thick or light.
Haunting the heart. 
Holding an oil-paper umbrella.
Hesitating in the lonely rainy alley.
The bluestone pavement underfoot.
It's still as long.
I can't get out of the sleepiness of lovesickness.
The wound of longing. Two lines of silent tears.
The rain was pouring down.
The heart is very small.
People and things from those old days.
In the dense or sparse sound of spring rain.
It has drifted away with the wind.
Spring rain. Filter out the worries of the world.
Wash the tiredness of the heart.
Wash away the mark of the passing years.
Listen to the rain in spring. I heard the revival of all things.
I heard the spring thunder of the seasons as the years passed.
She tore through the dreary suffocation and cramped oppression of the sky.
A whole new world.
The mood becomes smooth and fresh.
Spring rain. Sometimes it's a lyric poem.
Sometimes it's a symphony again.
Soothing as a whisper.
Heroic as passion blooms.
In the lap of nature.
Dive into the night with the wind.
Moisturizing things silently.