Remember, the floral fragrance of the path you and I walked hand in hand? Butterflies paint colorful memories, just to weave the next year's dusty wedding dress. A flower affair has not yet been done, and the ground is full of graves, who twist the lament into a wind and dust all the way, floating in the air for a long time can not settle. The white clouds fermented a cavity of thoughts and filled the sky, so that the sky was no longer empty. The crescent moon hung a ghost on the willow branches, and cut each willow leaf into its own shape, so that the earth was no longer lonely.
I have carefully collected every footprint you have stepped on, put it into a pot of thoughts, and planted a huge acacia tree. Every time I walk under the tree, I always have to stand in the most beautiful posture and look up at you, pick up the biggest and most beautiful acacia seeds, and string them into an acacia chain. It's just that this beautiful acacia chain is always crushed by the wheel of time.
Remember the bamboo bridge that you and I crossed side by side? Picking up a red leaf, whose thoughts burned the trees full of green? Sunset's face was painted with golden joy, unwilling to take back his own clothes, but pulling my lonely shadow to the elder. The thin bamboo under his feet cracked the desire of youth, and indifferently looked at the sweet smiles and lonely eyebrows of the world. Who picks up the green fruit and holds it in his arms and does not bear to throw it away, but he drys the tears in the corners of his eyes into a monument in the evening wind?
Yellow flowers on the ground pile up a dry landscape, cutting off the end of the world and burying the memory. Pick up a bunch of tranquility, portray your back in the cold silence, the door of my memory is always open for you, but the lock you closed is cold and determined. Reach out and hold your name tightly, but don't want your name to become so strange and distant.
Remember, the gap in the memory where you and I snuggled up? Pour a glass of red wine, see the red juice in the transparent glass pure and seductive, slowly shake the foot of the glass, the wine slightly rippled, turning out a round whirlpool, that is the shape of happiness? You say that life is short, dust is like a flower, beautiful and intoxicating but unattainable, happiness is like wine, mellow and seductive but empty as a dream. You say that unattainable beauty is better to watch from afar, and that ethereal happiness is better to wave your hand down.
So you cut a corner of your memory out of the game and sit indifferently at the gap in that side's memory. Hide your heart full of sadness, pretend to be indifferent, and sit next to you for the last time, listening to you tell stories that have nothing to do with us. The vine of memory is still spreading and growing, and tonight, let me once again banish my longings.
Remember those years of debris that you've long discarded? The cup of the flowing years is still intoxicating, but without your company, my world is always dark. Sitting alone in the empty time, watching the fallen leaves fly like butterflies, just like the sorrow in my heart, I can't always get rid of it. The smile on your lips, the shallow melancholy at the corner of your eyebrow, a trace, are as clear as the veins on the leaves, and the bumps loom between the square inches.
Thinking of your goodness, like the warm spring breeze in March, blowing up the loneliness of winter, blowing green spring colors all over the ground, intoxicating. Read your goodness, like the green lotus circle in June, raise the flag of the season, and dance drunkenly in the breeze. Forget your good, weak water three thousand drinks, but you do not want to pick up my scoop, turn around, the end of the world. Let those fragments of the years drift in the river of memory, you have long discarded, why should I remember?
Remember, the promise you owe me that drifts in the wind? The years turn darkly, and the eyes of the years quietly watch the vicissitudes of the world. Our story has long since aged in the dust of the sea. It's just that the promise you still owe me still occasionally flashes in the loneliness of the evening wind.
No longer remember your name, no longer compile the rise and fall of the story, just sit quietly, sitting at the ferry port of red dust. Look at the clouds rising and falling, listen to the ferry without a trace of time, express a paper of delicacy, pick a finger of wind and dust, and smile lightly. In the sky, a thin cloud came lightly, strangely, a white style passed by, and behind him, the petal lotus blossomed. A Sanskrit song slowly fell, a greeting faintly came, far away from you, okay?
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