【Leave the moment of fragrance】
Author: Dotted line polygon
The river flows slowly with endless stories. It is the fragrance of spring, the brightness of summer, the harvest in autumn, and the hope of winter snow.
A bouquet of life's years slowly passed. Xu is the wind and snow moon, Xu is the joy and sorrow. It will leave a little bit in the reflection of the river, it will also flash a weak light, and it will occasionally flip through a few thin waves to hit the embankment.
The river has been flowing slowly, not in a hurry or panic. Fog has sunshine, rain has stars and moons, and loneliness is accompanied by wind and rain.
The wind and moon are a peach blossom source, and the drizzle is a stream and a mountain.
In the thickness of life, a few horizontal and vertical chapters are mediocre, and a few pages are skimmed. The memories all fell into the flowing water, left far away, far away.
The time outside the window has aged, slowly diving into the twilight of life. The passerby of love, the withered vines wrapped around the depths of the heart, pointing to the bitterness under the umbrella of blue flowers.
Guanghua was long gone, and Qingsi had turned white hair. A cup of deep affection that is cold, and I can no longer measure the dream of acacia. A heart-warming dream, can no longer warm the autumn coolness of the cold moon.
Counting the time, listening to the babbling of water, the memories of the wash are long gone, and the spring and autumn have quietly walked away.
Looking at the red dust, who is coming for the ferry?
Faint window lights, countless thin cool. Thick old dust, carved half a life of sadness. The years of a curtain of life are a pot of boiled heartache and a cup of entangled fate.
Xu is a cloud in the sky, and he once signed a lifelong contract. It was only in the flashes of light that the strokes of the pen were scattered and a thousand words were torn apart. The freehand sketches that were once sketched, the memory has long been stranded.
Xu is the years outside the window, flipping through the sunset. The yellow vines hanging under the shelf, once warm to each other, have long been crushed into a muddy residue. The brilliance of the fingers turned into a white hair in an instant. A piece of yin and yang separated by life and death, flowers fall and blossom.
Hope is the gesture of a cloud walking through the four seasons, gently floating through the place of love. Hope is the moment a flower blooms, leaving a fragrance. Hope is a window of affectionate love frozen in front of the eyes and hearts.
Maybe, maybe, only in vain. It is a vague dream that cannot be touched, a hazy sky that cannot be seen...
About the Author:
Dotted line surface, settled in Beijing. Horizontal and vertical years, skimming time, using pen and ink to write about the vicissitudes of wind and rain, sweet and sour, bitter and spicy.