As it is, idle clouds and wild cranes, small bridges and flowing water, the setting sun, the dawn wind and the waning moon, and the willow bank are zen.
As it is, the ends of the earth, the mountains and rivers are trekking, the smiles are gorgeous, they rely on each other, and the stars are full of poetry.
There is not so much time for us to talk about those impregnated times, and trace the most beautiful imagination together in the most plain words in the plainest days. There is not so much space for us to depict those idealized worlds together, and the short sentences that are familiar in the habitual greetings represent the truest thoughts.
In the morning light, the fragrance of magnolia dew, like a butterfly, collects the fragrance that remains among the flowers, and holds up the bright fragrance together to engrave this moment. The flowers are not as colorful as this momentary feeling. In the noisy chaos to pick up a moment of tranquility, in the hustle and bustle of the world planted all the way cool, the silent language is our common language, the pursuit of the distance is our common pursuit.
On that land of birds and flowers, listening to the sound of the weeping flute, I can't hear the disturbing footsteps, I can't see the unintentional background, only the light music in the faint breeze. In this way, they sat back to back, bent on each other's knees, and painted the blue sky with a sketch pen in the picture that was nothing more, which was the most beautiful we saw, and it was the same color as the sea.
These landscapes will never again be endowed with the illusion of sorrow, so that they will be studded with a membrane of sorrow. These brisk dews will never again be given to them by the feeling of coldness, making them so clear and cloudy.
The initial freshness, the initial cleanliness, and now the future morning light is like this.
In the afternoon, the heat that has not yet dissipated, the cold has been set away, the heart is already rippling, and the residual heat is smoking, surrounding the reddish peach blossoms. This kind of scene, this is no longer your nightmare, this is no longer your obsessive foothold looking into the distance, no longer your tearful eyes are no longer the habitat where you are silent, and from now on someone looks at your tears left by the wind.
Peach forest, I don't know which one you have touched, we water it together and swear to keep it. Here, the blood-stained, bits and pieces of memories are gradually buried with the present time. The first nightmare will definitely end in the most beautiful future, no longer to hear crying in the wind, and to hear the wind in the mountains.
Rafting in the stream of this peach forest, you recite those flower collections, you dance and ink, and you draw that sketch for me. After this, we abandon those sad feelings, we abandon those pasts; After this, even if you don't have to smile knowingly, you will be happy, and after this, you don't have to pretend that you were blown into the sand and shed tears.
In the middle of the night, the moonlight that has not yet left, like a dream, follows the reflection in your life, and sees the past of you that has not been touched by those long overdue days. Bounce off the dust together to spy on those throbbing, and those spanning years have become longitudinal and clear. Come, I will forget with you.
The promenade, the invisible end. Walking or breaking steps, it's as imagined. The moonlight stretches the shadow longer, and the limited vitality strolls through this endless corridor, and there is an indifferent happiness quietly born, and I don't know whether it is because of you or me, or because of this dark yellow picture.
The ancient pavilion, the wandering person finally sat quietly in this antique pavilion, and the romantic person finally told her about those once beautiful women. In the night, which is not slow or long, melancholy never strikes again, and darkness never strikes again. All this is recorded in the gentle moonlight that leaks all over the place, longing, ideal, and longing.
All this is a lead flower, and there are no more words after washing, only the sigh of looking back at what is only a mirage. All this is a deadline, and there is not much retention after the dream, only the indifference of continuing the world.
But in this way, I am full of emotion, I am full of sorrow, I am staggered, I raise my glass to ask for love, and the sunset is in disarray.
But in this way, the clouds and tides are surging, tears are in the heart, drunk dreams and death, the sound is immersed, and the moonlight is full of yellow flowers.
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