Spring in the world, lingering

"When the Swallow Character Returns, the Moon Is Full of West Building" | text: Jiang Han

"Gangnam, Hanama Asami"

/01/

There is a way, and the spring dust on earth is colorful. Seasonal, through the hundred flowers and purple, not in a hurry, the steps flashed from the tangible edge. I don't know, how many lovers did Cupid's arrow shoot? I don't know, how sad is the West Wing?

Alone on the fence, at the end of the sky, the smoke and rain are clouded, and a line of green ink swallow characters is faintly visible. Fold your heart note, let go of the dream that has haunted the millennium, and look for Jiangnan, where the powder rain is like fog.

The legendary Gangnam, swing a curtain in a dream. Blue leaf, horizontal slope, green waves, babbling and moving, beautiful and enchanting. Ancient temples in the foothills, bells swinging, winding bamboo docks. The candle incense purple qi lingered, dispersing the clouds and the sky. Jingmei, eye-catching ancient poems inlaid with lead, have gone through wind and rain, the charm is not reduced, rendering the wonder of the picture scroll. A little mysterious, a little dreamy, pulling that thin string, and approaching the ancient town full of inky apricot rain.

Long alleys, gravel paved trails deep, polished bald surfaces, I don't know how many deaths have been transferred? An oil-paper umbrella leans against the thin shoulders, the long skirt is slightly lifted, and the lotus step is submerged. Beside me, the rain is light, and the birds are chirping. A flute sound, a clear tone, a gentle twist, long and melodious. Suddenly, ethereal and vaguely Tingwan a woman, a small umbrella covered the pink and tender green face, the long green silk fluttered softly and brightly, the ice point lotus zero embellished in the milky white Gong Luo, the wind lifted, man dance.

A picture unfolded under her eyes, and the scene was fluttering, trance-like, like a dream. I can't remember when, I walked out of the Song Ci Qingyu case, for the appointment of the past life, to the water town fireworks ancient bridge, throwing a thousand years of surprise. The immortal's point of jin, the desire of the heart, just like this, the strange wind and rain, the crowd Baidu, to find the --- lights up.

/02/

On the blue stone slab, The Qianqian Su Woman walked through the smoke-blue mist, just like the lotus step ten mile long pavilion, reliving the warmth of that year. Listening to the dripping droplets on the purple umbrella surface, the sound of the crisp rain, she was in that soul-crushing style. It is also this season, but also like a fog like rain and like the wind of the scene, two dependent figures, the same umbrella sky, walking in the narrow and ancient Jiangnan Chen Lane, tracing the ancient to find the Red Chamber Yi Dream.

He said that the person under his eyes is a classical and elegant woman, who has been imprisoned for a thousand years, a poetry scripture, a guzheng, a stone ink, buried in the case file to swim in the Spring and Autumn, low eyebrows and hand to play the kite strings, shallow and faint in the empty clouds and water. Touching a shaft of acacia, that ageless countenance emerged from the depths of memory. Still so laughter, still so kind, still so thick and cloudy, that persistence has been spotless so far, only because of the thousands of turns of Qiong Yao's beautiful people.

Yingying plum blossom condensed three lanes, Chu Chu bamboo rhyme wrote a masterpiece. That day, who was it, leaning against the curved corridor shallow chanting low? Who is it, standing in the west window holding a cut of plum, waiting in the moonlight for the heart of the dream? At that moment, who and who first met the port of early spring, deduced the mythical story? Wind fluttering, rain Xiao Xiao, acquaintance, acquaintance, time and shadow in the fingertips of the joke, the shock does not live up to the autumn eyebrows, from then on, Gu Fang no longer appreciates himself, the two worlds, with the ethereal singing of double swallows. A flower and a butterfly, in the sunset red river wind, flowers seduce butterflies, butterflies love flowers, a fragrance is gentle, intoxicating the poetry of the Yi people.

Qingfeng about the dream, bright moon Zhang foil, bamboo string charm, Yang Liu Yiyi reading Jiangnan in love.

The opportunity of the year lies in the spring, and the dream of a lifetime begins in the spring. In ancient times, how many talented and beautiful people passed through Jiangnan, Shen Garden carried the immortal love poetry history of Lu You and Tang Wan; Tang Bohu, a talented man on the banks of the Yangtze River, pointed out autumn incense and left behind beautiful talks through the ages; which garden is not the cradle of love? Which ancient pavilion is not a picture screen of memories? Ten miles to send Bo Liang Zhu, the broken bridge remnant snow tears away, and now, there are handsome men and beautiful women, weaving dreams of smoke and rain on the platform, so that the hazy Jiangnan is rich in red dust. And she, a woman who grew up drinking Huai shui, waded through the mountains in Miaoling, carrying a lifelong dream, to Jiangnan, where she regretted her soul. In the season when plum blossoms are turning red, I meet the white-clothed prince who has been waiting for thousands of years. It seems that the ink of the ancestors was specially for them, and the Xiaoxiang style was plump and thin poetry.

He, drunk, drunk on her classical waves; intoxicated by her extraordinary qualities, with a bend of unobtrusive eyes, until he left, puzzled. She, drunk, drunk in his temperament, was polite and diligent in contemplation; she, drunk, drunk on that white face, was handsome and clear in the paintings blown by the bamboo wind and plum rain, and written with wisdom and spiritual beauty, almost making her feel suffocated.

Season after season, she followed the sound of flowers blooming. Belly light, where is the dream. Stepping on the snow again to find plums, it was the pink rain that was red again, and the firewood of the deep courtyard was sounded. The winding path is still there, and the bamboo forest is dense and towering, with young leaves and a fresh breeze. A few migratory birds seem to be familiar, hovering overhead, singing and singing from time to time, just as if to welcome the old people back. The wind screen is still there, but it has traces of the flow of years on it.

There is more grass on the rockery, and the roots are intertwined around the peak. The peach blossom next to it smiled and bent over, who was it, chanting where the human face was, how the peach blossom could reflect the east wind. Who crossed five hundred years of acacia and collided with her on the banks of the Three Stones? The beautiful person who met unexpectedly, with a smile in her eyes, and three thousand love waters in her veins, locked in whose Fang Fei? Speechless, dignified, eyes will be, like once, the person in the dream, around the corner, reunited.

With a gentle sigh, it fell into the peach blossom rain. How wonderful, how magical, in response to Cui Huo's peach blossom poem. The east wind is still the same, the people are still the same, and the peach blossoms on the faces of the people are red. She sighed long, hissed, smiled, and charmed into the painting. He, walking slowly, approached as lightly as a dream, closer, rubbed shoulders with him, stood side by side with him, heard his heartbeat, smelled his breath, saw his eyes, excited him, incoherent, flustered and revealed his intoxicated gaze, involuntarily exclaiming, sighing. The Yiren in the dream of Jiangnan in his dream blew a curtain of smoke and rain into his dream with the purest heart tone, the woman who was obsessed with butterflies, the woman who caressed the beautiful words of the piano, the woman who had a magnolia hairpin on the placket, and in this way, he approached the Jiangnan talent with different feelings.

From then on, the other side of the flower blossoms; from then on, the thought of each other is endless. From then on, hand in hand, smiling and walking together. Since then, the spring rain blows flowers, and the double swallows cry willows, which are frozen into a set of pictures that will never fade.

Jiangnan, floating in a volume of words and ink, who is it, dashing and elegant, dancing with the bright moon? Who is it that, in a low chant, a lifetime of pain, asks the bodhisattva of mercy, what is the sin of lovesickness? Clear strings, horses kick and click, and fall on whose heartstrings did they fall?

Jiangnan, the flowers between the shallow covenant, reunion, gaze at the slanting sun.

The breeze is clear, when is clear, and when the swallow character returns, the moon is full of the West Building.

Image source network, invasion and deletion

author

Pseudonym: Jiang Han. Since I was a child, I have been more liberal arts, and I usually like to read some articles

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