The sky is full of flowers, fluttering and sprinkling, wanting to say goodbye, overflowing the city, scattering the poignant beauty of the land. At the place of staring, the ground was red, stinging his eyes, throbbing with emotion, disturbing his thoughts, and stirring up a touch of slow heart.
After a few years, the blue waves are rippling, the willow bank is green and green, and the wind and drizzle do not have to return, but see the strange flowers blooming. Only to see, the peach blossom is still smiling in the spring breeze, and the poor thing is no longer human.
The wind was blowing, and the petals were raining down, and the residue was red. But I don't know who the peach blossoms were in the past, and for whom the peach blossoms fell today, and the city fell in one place?
I murmured to the moon the soft language of the old times, and your soft whispered fragrance in the silent night sky, like a lingering piano, like a wisp of gossamer, drifting through the night sky, drawing a beautiful lonely line, playing a fragrance like a stream, untouchable thoughts, and growing wildly in the infinite firmament.
The small red letters of the rolls, the broken sentences of the queuing, and the scattered fragments tell the warmth of yesterday, reminiscing about the love of the flowing years.
That thin word is like the grace of an orchid, that stranded thought is like the tenderness of a rose, that warm memory is like the loneliness of lilacs, and the shallow pain of a begonia is like the desolation of a begonia.
The night is still dark, the wind is soft, the drizzle is thick, and the flowers are falling. The same scene, and now the touch is full of sorrow. The small window is far away from the night, dipping a drop of ink incense, holding a piece of acacia, with a body of pain, the gentleness of shaking a hand, for you to dial the lamp book to do the red note, drunk full of letters into the heart, still inch soft intestines.
Pick up the lamp to look at the sword, day and night thinking confused, a pool of light ink, dripping like silk rain, dripping acacia tears, soaked with a piece of melancholy. Between the lines of the lingering words, every word is a thousand strands of acacia, every word is a love thread that is constantly straightened and messed up, a thousand silk nets in the heart, who is the bell that must be tied to the person?
Drunkenly dancing with the tenderness of a lifetime, just to commemorate the lost wind and snow moon.