Falling into the depths of the alley, the mood is dull. The consternation of a gust of wind made a rain rise outside of time. The dust that splashed up choked all over his body and discouraged his heart. The seed of a young chrysanthemum, the soul is quiet. Roll into the skirt pleats. Want to stage a feast of blossoms? Who will redeem this inlay that cannot be shaken off? The wind, the thick thoughts of the long hair, the legend of the rain, the resentment that helps the waves flow for years, let it be long. Scattered fallen leaves, smashing the pulsation of the stars and moons.
Memories, in the curl of the green coat, the smoke was piled up. Ten fingers, bent into a barrel of empty cups, whispering: Lost Que Red Note, who holds the hand with me to fill in the words? Looking back at the empty pavilion, the rain line is far away. The curtain moved slightly three feet, and the demon was high with a bitter thought. Relaxing the stitches of the trouser tube makes it difficult to hide the hesitation under the eaves. Leaning on the alley wall with one ear, listening to the return of the heart ridge. Obscure distant mountains, wolf smoke.
Only because this thought is too full, he releases precious things in the night with a stroke of a stroke. Night, psychic. Let me stretch my arms and wave at the ocean of dreams; let me go barefoot and step on the waves; let me pick up the ash of the Road marks that have been hanging on the folds because of the long-term camouflage.
Stubbornly, with the ink flowing from the fingertips, make scissors. Compared with the shadow of memory in the daylight, the reflection of the bumpy mountain is cut into a ribbon around it. Embroidered with the silk accumulated over the years, it is embroidered into a "waiting" verdant. At one end, the ring is on top of the ripples of desire, and the other end is tied to the wrist, forming a dead knot that cannot be solved. Hold down the ripples of the waves and face off against time.
The cold of the season, delusionally trying to change my habit of drunkenness when I am frustrated, and trying to encourage the meteors in the sky to sprinkle some filth to tarnish the purity of the wine. Unfortunately, the wind of the flowing years, too strong, so strong that it can use the darkness of the night to have no fear, will pry open a pot of old wine on both sides of the tears that I accidentally dripped, soaking into a poison that concerns the intestines, until people can't help but pick it up, kiss and suck...
Mellow memories, at this time, will spread out into rhyme because of drunkenness. Printed on the reef, you will hear the echo of the dust before you – it seems that there are finches listening outside the candlelight window. Watching their excited figures jump from under the eaves into the treetops, you can understand that the fusion of feelings is an excellent realm of spiritual fit. At this time, the cracks in the window ledge will inadvertently fly out of the shocking "no", mixed with some fine dust, straight into the clouds, falling into the ridges of the mountains, the traces of water...
The wine is getting stronger and stronger, but the body is getting colder and colder, so cold that it can make the poems frost. The frost, falling on the line tied to the "dead knot", traced, deeper. Stepping on the long night, dancing with the clouds, trying to find a comfort to outline the unevenness of the gully.
Listening to the cries of geese flying from north to south, you can feel that the drawing paper in your hand at this time must have been covered with a phalanx of geese flying. A kind of acacia, countless idleness, it becomes the moon deficiency in the note, looking forward to the Mid-Autumn Festival, looking forward to the bridge of Tanabata, and erecting above the sea. At that time, there will be a large number of clouds gathered together to widen the passage of the sea, to make me a ship to the ripples far away, to pursue the source of dreams. Appreciate the glass world, taste the sweetness of the world, it will be warmer than here, right?
If this is the case, then, I will change to a kind of ink dye, day and night, paint a tree and a tree calmly, implanted in the hustle and bustle of the shore, let it grow into a posture of looking at the sea, and grow high. Straight as bamboo, steady as pine, healthy as the wind, beautiful as hibiscus, warm as a rising sun halo - eye-catching without losing its authenticity. Shen Yun, far away, searching for the other side of the ribbon floating... Stacked thoughts, so long Oh...
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