Qi dreamed into Song Yun, and The double swallows went to Jiangnan

"Qi Dream into Song Yun, Double Swallows to Jiangnan" | text: willow with smoke

"Flowers in dreams, bright moon lou heart about guanshan"

/01/

Morning hedges, the sky is light, a cloud drifts in, sending a thin coolness. The lark fluttered its wings and rode a wisp of wind over the riverbank. Dancing softly and slowly, it woke up the sleeping grass, and opened her sour eyes, soothing and excited. Willows broke away from the branches and flew around, dancing softly and gracefully. Purple flowers, moistened the throat, whispered, sang shallowly, telling the summer sun, warm.

She stood in the promenade of the seasons, looking back, deep or shallow footprints, snaking into the distance. The memories stranded in the old times are like flowers blown down by the wind, and the flowers roll up and float up from the bottom of the lake. At this moment, a handful of dawn light illuminated the white plain notes in the ash, vividly remembered his deep and subtle smiling face, brewed a cup of tea, sat with him, listened to him, and whispered from the bottom of his heart.

Tracing back to the source of the story, it was the day when the plum dyeed the branches and Lin Haixueyang was raised.

She lives in the depths of the bamboo forest, according to the pure white of the season, leisurely and plain heart, looking down on the halo of land. Beautiful and elegant, she is often a stream of water in the ancient books to sing and pick up fun, with a delicate smile like celadon porcelain, occasionally revealing a little pity and sadness, low eyebrows and kites, a song of alpine water, flowing the hope in her heart. With the flute in hand, the memories and attachments of the past are vividly precipitated.

Looking through a blue window in the fog, looking at her, a little elegant, a little ethereal, like the ancient rhyme of plain Yan, also like the ink smoke of Danqing's picture scroll, and like the rich rouge fragrance in the sandalwood box. He was clearly a poet of the Tang Dynasty and a lyricist of the Song Dynasty, embroidered with poetic words and flowers, and vividly painted. That calm look was not exactly the divine stroke of the poetry immortal.

He is a green-clothed man who is on the battlefield of the sea, poetic Hanlin, waving north and south, stroking the wind, and smiling proud of the rivers and lakes. In that year, when he was a cardamom boy, he crossed the ocean, worked hard in a foreign country, was compatible with China and the West, inherited the civilization of his homeland, drank ancient and modern, looked at the essence of overseas ideological trends, and the sword of the East with abundant wings and glory; in that year, when the smoke of gunfire suddenly rose, he gave up pen and ink, held a sword on the battlefield, poured out a cavity of blue blood, and the iron horse Jingo only ran for justice.

The sword light still needs poetry and ink rhymes, and at dusk, he wears an ice blue brocade robe and is graceful in the flying streamers. The white face, handsome in the slanting sunset, was so beautiful that the willow branch bent its waist. The lamp in front of the window illuminates the lonely person, holding the pen, bowing his head and meditating, meditating in the spring and autumn of pen and ink, and chanting.

/02/

Several lifetimes of dating, she and he just met for the first time in the peach blossom rain of the smoke and rain in jiangnan.

Broken crescent, lonely for years. I don't know how many days and nights, with light ink hands to turn the years, with delicate fingertips to knock out how many touching arias? I don't know how many rhymes fly over the black and white keyboard, using the most simple and unpretentious language, with the most emotional songs, smearing Fang Fei's seasons into burning poems. The green leaf-wrapped flower butterflies, shining with a faint fragrance, smoked the pink of that season, in the drizzle, with buds to be released, shyness is permeated with delicacy, and there is some charm hidden in the plain.

He beat his horse past her doorway, and the crisp sound of hooves disturbed the shallow flow of people in the deep window. Mo Shang smiled, Fei Hong skimmed over the heart pool, and the sword eyebrow bent out a soft warmth. A peach blossom, with a little bit of light rain, fluttering slowly in the swing. The faint spring light, with her crunchy voice, flowed and swayed, tugging at his heartstrings. He laughed, she smiled too, and she couldn't imagine that the encounter with you was in the peach blossom red smoke and rain of the past life.

Suddenly, she fell into the abyss of red dust.

Since the meeting, his countenance, in her memory, has never aged. His hoops, his brick platforms, his jade belts, often drifted with the wind, and they were as rare as ever. Whenever the laurel moon was lit and the sky was bright, he leaned under the tree and blew the whistle, and she swirled her toes and danced in the flying tidbits. They once swung boats in the water of the poetry lake, and when the light boats wanted to ripplve into the depths, they marched in a flurry of flutes and urged people to go out. There was a helpless look in his eyes, which made the green mountains and green waters dim. Outside the long pavilion, the ignorant creature groaned goodbye, and hiked Yingjie's tears wet.

On a windy day, the leaves and dried flowers of the trees fell silently asleep, and she stood by the railing and stared. In late autumn, the golden Wuxi fell, the wind was gentle, the rain was fluttering, and the mountains and forests near and far were covered with gray tulle. The flock of crows in the forest roared sadly, gathering to chase after the glory of Shaohua. When their cries were dyed red, and several blood-colored floating clouds gradually floated up from the back of the mountain forest, she seemed to hear a voice that seemed to be familiar with the echo, was it him? Those doubtful eyes still revealed a polished light.

A thousand years of time can not hide the broken cocoon of the dust edge.

In the vast red dust, in order to find her, step through thousands of miles of landscapes and rivers, and walk and chant, looking for the strings and sounds. He knew that the heavenly way paid for diligence, the iron shoes were full of wings, flying high in the breeze and the bright moon, encountering the wind, encountering the rain, encountering the bright red sun of the stove, and encountering the moon with snowflakes half hidden. Confident in his chest, he is full of flying tension, crossing the long river of the seasons, walking on a long heart road, and also walking on a vast state of mind. He understood that he was walking to fly, to fly in her distant direction. She once said that she loves the peach blossom rain in pink tones. He searched for her in the misty rain, looking for the light in his heart. How to bear the heart of the kung fu, finally plum blossom three regret people's intestines, startled to take off and snow fell thousands of feet, in the cloister turn, the shock of the eyes, the dust edge settled.

It is as if in a dream, but not in a dream.

Yu Remember, on the side of the stone steps that emitted plum fragrance, he crossed the flute Wu Yin, and she Qin Zheng Han Qu. She seems to be the Wenjun of Zhiyin, he seems to be like a xie pei, a thousand turns in the curtain, at that moment, the mountain is no longer high, the water is no longer deep, the streamer is brilliant, and the silence is as beautiful as a si;

Remember, the sunset shines obliquely between the clouds and waters, his sword dances and flowers rain, full of poetry, she paints fan ink, elegant love. Singing a blue, light and bright song rhyme, staring at the green shirt, drunk with weak water three thousand, that is the romance that belongs to spring and belongs to him and belongs to her;

Remember, next to the ancient bridge of ink painting, the white wall Dewa, the new hedge of bamboo. Deep in the courtyard of the small pavilion, his pen is like a ghost, a stone is like a heavenly pool, a splash of ink cloud notes, a bottle under the moon, and a low groan. Who is the spring wind word pen, with warm words, open the frozen Fang Fei. Intense tenderness melts into the ripples of the pupils.

Whenever the lanterns are on, the night is not yet over, he and she, the invitation is indifferent, as promised, relatively quiet, raise the eyebrows, sink the souls to foam myths and classics, pointing to the Tang wind and Song Rain, embroidering a perfect picture, dancing on the shoulders through the Spring Garden, silent smearing drunken Qinghuan. A hundred turns a thousand times, night and night, lonely flowers, enchanting and gorgeous. The shadow under the moon, looking back and smiling, walking alone.

He and she, in the sunny and harmonious day, each in their own formation, rushed to a square circle, if they were to leave, they enjoyed the bright days on earth; he and she, one sword and one sword, walked the rivers and lakes, a total of apricot blossoms and smoke and rain, poetic calligraphy and painting love for thousands of years in Jiangnan.

This time the deepest encounter of the red dust will shadow a brilliant color that will never fade in the long river of her life, and it will be warm in the heart. The days to come, as he said, ten years, no, a lifetime of co-Shaohua flow, there are dreams to cling to, she is no longer wandering; with his lust, she will no longer wither and wither; with his companionship, red dust is strange, she is no longer lost; a thought in the heart, the fingertips are thousands of knots, the dreams are flowers, and the heart of the bright moon is about guanshan.

Only wish, Qi dream into the Song Rhyme, double swallow to Jiangnan, the end of the world together Landu, the ancient yang bang.

Image source network, invasion and deletion

author

Pen name: Liu Hanyan, as for the view of the text, just like the text of the view of me, simpler, simpler, quieter, quieter.

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