Flowers bloom
Jiang Jianhua
Flowers fall and cannot be stopped. Fall, go with the wind, sprinkle red dust. On the way with the wind, the falling flowers may not be able to catch up with the speed of the wind, so the memory picks up the feeling, does not want to write forgetting, adds a "also" word, rewrites the impossible persistence...
- Caption
(i)
The sun is falling, and it is a day when the paintings are wet. The sparse figure of the distant mountains, the flying red dots of the dusk, are also soaked in your dreams.
Sitting in front of the window, the wind and moon are also boundless, and you have been wandering for many years, and you have not found your harbor in a foreign land.
(ii)
I like to find a place to read quietly.
The street lights are on, the music in the open-air dance hall is playing, and you are walking into the night. It's a great feeling to be alone in the dark, let your mind fly in the streets of the city. Inadvertently, I caught a glimpse of a pair of squirming figures, entangled. You quickly look away, and the sad clouds in the depths of your soul flow recklessly.
Don't say "happiness is theirs, I have nothing" anymore. The world is so big and so small, and the little bookstore makes you so contented.
(iii)
You, who once didn't drink, were so intoxicated that time. Your expression dissolved in the fierce aroma of wine, and in the confusion, you even sympathized with the female relatives of the Han Palace, and smeared a few lines of something called poetry, which tasted strange.
The Dream of That Era / The Fragrance of This Era / A Few Glasses of Old Wine / The Desire to Flow into the Cave / The Narrow Moon Illuminates the Window / Confusion Is the Cold Wall of the Han Dynasty /
Inside the city / Miserable palace / Throw the poem on the rushing river / Will the river carry her heart / The emotions of the lost spring drift in the wind /
Never Happened / It's Over / Like / The Bud Withers Away and Too Late to Open / Yesterday's Candlelight / Who Burns / The Night Is Unharmed /
Han Dynasty palace walls / That ancient philosophy / How many generations of pedantry meditated in the middle of the night / Open the window / A flower butterfly / Fly towards the moonlight / Fly
The song is bitter and astringent, more bitter than your tears.
(iv)
In front of the window, you have been sitting for a long time. Like that drunkenness, it was because of a story from a long time ago.
In July, the wheat has long been harvested, and new grains have been pumped out. The smile of the sister-in-law must be brilliant and dazzling, and your expectations are still floating like clouds, and time is not like this, making you wait forever. Flowers, in the heart, bloom and fail, fail and bloom.
The sound of birdsong in the night sky, straight into the bone marrow, is really a bit frightening, but it is also calm, bird song is bird song, there is no other deeper meaning. You resolutely banished July's life, and let the faint ripples of ruthless and affectionate clouds flow through the heart bank.
As early as July, a straw stick has been inserted in your hair, waiting for the price to be sold, and the description of the withered mallet makes people respect and stay away. At dusk in July, the stars have turned west.
(5)
At some point, the music outside also faded into the dark night, silent. What ends is only the story, and what remains is the heart that is always young.
Many years later, where will the red oil painting full of teardrops be hidden? The soul of freedom, no longer speaking sadness.