Midnight, reminiscing about past love, silent, feminine night flashing, talking to the soul. Empty heart, entangled, lonely quietly arrived, thinking scattered in every corner, the wind swept through the bamboo forest, knocking out the sorrow and hate, butterflies are not flying in the sea, but the other shore lacks waiting, patience, etc., with a broad heart to tolerate, there will be a rainbow after the wind and rain.
The flowers on the other side bloom for a thousand years, the leaves and flowers do not meet, and the five hundred years of looking back in exchange for the shoulder rubbing of this life, love, just like this surge. Years passed through the fingertips, and there was no trace. Deep ink, leaving memories, counting the days that have passed, the dappled shadow is elongated, the chrysanthemum platform looks out, the thousand sails are over, but you can't find your footprints, Xiaoxiang smoke water, that ink Danqing, rendering the flow of years.
Holding a handful of moonlight from the Tang Dynasty, dipping a stroke of Song Shi ink, cold incense flying poems in the thin lamp flowers, the Twenty-Four Bridges reflecting in the water, reciting the beauty of a thousand years. Fingertip flying flowers, dreaming of Wuling Creek. Casualness, joy, eternal gentleness through that window, bright moon night, short Matsuoka, only tears, nostalgia for the past, love spread in the gentle place. The night is always long, and the misty light dissolves into a perpetual line of chanting.
The remnant moon is like a hook shining on the West Building, and the road is clear but sentient. Jiangnan smoke and rain once captured the dreamy shadow, watching from a distance, drizzling rain, an oil-paper umbrella outlined the lilac girl; a picturesque broken bridge cast a focused gaze; the West Lake blue waves ripple with love; the style of the Qinhuai River, playing and singing backyard flowers; the beautiful Wuzhen, evoking a burst of nostalgia.
The picture flashes to the mind, reveling in the imagery, the words jump, the characters flash, the night, the middle, the shooting stars across the sky, cutting the flickering candlelight. The throbbing heart silently recites its own poems: flying flowers into dreams and tapping the heart of the king, gracefully dancing and long whistling. Immersed in the ink, plum blossom three lanes of acacia lead. A love flows slowly in the bottom of the heart, the moon shadow is sparse, the soul is destroyed, and the two places are groaned, allowing the thoughts to spread.