I do not know what love is, but I love the blooming rose; I do not know what sorrow is, but I weep for the broken flower.
The world loves the delicate flowers, but they don't know that the moment the flowers fall is so beautiful, it is difficult to disappear in the next second.
The wind swayed gracefully, but she did not know that there was no El Dorado in this world.
The so-called paper is short and long, but in the end, only habits are left.
All the ruins are the sediment of the years; every wound contains some stories.
I've been here, and no one has proven it, no one remembers.
The warm and tacky romance is the longest confession of love in this flower world.
Sunlight pours obliquely through the window slits on the promenade, warm and long with a faint fragrance. I sit at this end, you sit at that end. I hold the book, you hold a flute in your arms. A gust of wind rose, you decorated my poems, blew me into the melodious flute, I blushed my cheeks, you confused your mind, it turned out, love is nothing more than that.
Everything grows up in silence, cloaked in the colors of occasional sadness or joy.
It is difficult to say goodbye when we meet, and the east wind is powerless. The only way is that this gentle autumn rain sends lovesickness, and the smoke from the cooking smoke seems to be sad. What I can't write about is the strong thoughts like spirits, and what is difficult to get out is the weak entanglement. The night is not over, the wind is not sleeping, the most difficult time is difficult, the white clouds are leisurely sending lovesickness, and I am worried that the enemy's heart will change.