A window of smoke and rain, half a day idle

"A window of smoke and rain half a day idle" | text: coiled flower buttons

"If you are in your arms, you will have a strong love"

/01/

I like rainy days the most, and I like smoke and rain the most.

At dusk, the gray clouds were misty in the deep twilight, and the slightly cool wind was winding around the ends of the hair. The rain, falling quietly like silk, is soft and clear.

I really want to collect this dense and delicate rain, in the sunshine, under the cool moonlight, when there is no light rain, drying into a tree away from the flowers, falling with the ups and downs of the seasons.

The drizzle dripped on the bluestone slabs of the alley, and in an instant it entered the old days. The old days were so safe and ironed, just like the rain of this bell, falling on the heart between the eyebrows, faint thoughts, faint feelings, just into a window of twilight, quietly read in the rain wind.

The memory is also colored, on this slightly cool rainy day. The wind passed, the willow gently swayed and danced, and how many years of the past hid among the willow branches and willow leaves. A light rain, an inch of nostalgia will turn into ten thousand strands of tenderness, floating in endless time and space, copying into countless hearts, not getting old, washing the colorless taste of the rain into the bottom of the heart. Picking it up, it was like an old black-and-white photo, slightly glowing yellow and green, with a faint musty smell, into the track of memory.

/02/

A window of smoke and rain, a person.

On such a rainy day, enjoy the loneliness of a person. A person can lazily face the sky, can stubbornly listen to a song, can willfully read a person's name, and can let emotions flow with joy or sadness or arbitrariness.

A black canopy boat, half a bamboo leaf green, idly lying in the boat, listening to the rain. The gentle and quiet rain, gentle and loose, is the silent feeling of Du Gongbu's moisturizer; the fine and dense rain, fresh and moist, is the clear sound of the early spring of the retreating tianjie; the winding rain, melodious and gentle, is the song of the remnants of the Yishan Bantang.

An oil-paper umbrella, a deep alley, through a thousand years of time, silent, looking for rain. This rain is the tear of pain under the plane tree, the heavy light of the corner of the eye; this rain, is a glass of thin wine in the courtyard, in front of Yi An's eyes; this rain, moistens the gentle singing voice of Chaoyun, and sings again "The flowers fade red and green apricots are small"; under the monk's house, the rain before the drop of steps is red cherries and green plantains.

This rain also has feet. You listen: drop by drop, wet the stone steps, pounce on the window ledge, jump on the roof, chase the wings of the purple swallow, run into the mountains, into the rivers. You see: a drop of footprints, through the heavy curtains, lingering with a thousand years of unchanging feelings, Yuanna into a room of fragrance, in your heart, blooming a delicate flower, a flower, a flower.

Time can be wasted. Really, a window of smoke and rain, allowing me to be idle for half a day. A man, like a tree in the wilderness, is quiet and scattered.

If you start with it, you will have the warmth of spring, the brightness of the sun, and the beauty of the moon.

When you are in your arms, you have a strong feeling, a distant thought, and a long thought.

The sound of rain is approaching, and it is late at night again.

Image source network, invasion and deletion

author

Pen name: Coiled flower buttons. I like literature, I like to write something in a quiet time, and I like to post my own articles on websites.

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