Who is it, accompanied by a light Danqing ink, through the ancient bluestone rain lane, draped in the misty smoke and rain of March, carrying the goose yellow flying feathers in the sky, coming from the dream of Jiangnan, dreaming of the ancient rhyme of the Tang and Song Dynasties, several years of west lake wind and rain, Daishan blue water, wind and willow, boat roll painting curtain. He Xi, who is it, picking a wisp of tobacco from the Xiao bank of the Nasu Causeway, lightly dipping the water of the West Lake, sitting under the broken bridge to write a poem, sending a piece of acacia, softly, lightly, let the evening bell help her carry away the thoughts of the depths of the mountains. The clouds rolled begonia willows are still there, the Yi people on the shores of Xizi Lake go, deeply meditate on the wind and love, and the end of the world will not regret it.
Leisurely ink jiangnan, West Lake talent beauty, spring water bridge occasional encounter, look at the affection of the cotton, talent Xiaoyi, beautiful scenery, heart relaxed and pleasant, talent poetry, beautiful people dancing sleeves, life can have several times drunk. Here, there is a generation of literati and inkers, there are smoke and rain corridors, thousand-year-old towns, small bridges and flowing water, leisurely bamboo forests, and my smokey years, like water flowing years, in the passage of time day by day slowly aging, whenever the sun sets, I can't help but miss your depths, I waited for several lifetimes in loneliness and suffering, and now, my soul has taken root here, rooted in firm roots, let go of myself, let go of everything...
The wind is rolling, clinging to the tree; the clouds are rolling, clinging to the rain, and what about me? All things wake up, spring comes; the leaves fall, autumn comes, and what about me? Streams flow into rivers, lakes converge on the sea, and what about me? Everything in the world has its place of belonging, but what about me?
Gaze at the dust and smoke of willow silk, night with green lights who pity, I am like a grain of dust, with the breeze, forever drifting, forests, rivers and streams are my confidants, undulating mountains are my soul mate, smoke and rain return to send Jiangnan, flowers full of Su Causeway willows like smoke, this lake, this willow, this scene, live by this water. The cold pillow is still wet with tears, and I am moaning in the midst of illness, and I will turn into a breeze and disappear without a trace, as if it had never appeared, taking away all the sorrows and sorrows...
Overnight the stars entrust old dreams, the rain hits the plantains and worries, only in exchange for people haggard, tears makeup to the moon hook, every night falls, I am stupid, guarding the window foolish gaze, who in the clouds sends the golden book, every lonely dark night, I hold a longjing tea, read the most beautiful Tang and Song poems, thinking about the landscape of Jiangnan, the thoughts drift away, I don't know from which day, the plums under the steps have piled up like snow, I don't know from what day on, the spring stream of Dingdong has dried up to the bottom, I don't know from which day, the geese passing the book have disappeared. Like waiting for a hopeless flowering period, maybe a season, maybe a year, maybe a lifetime...
Relying on the column to remember Su's heart, red dust dreams of several delusions, who, in the rainy night Zhou Zhuang, looking for Li Shangyin's Jin Serhua Nian; on the bank of the Qinhuai River, traced du Mu's backyard flower sound. From the white lady holding an oil-paper umbrella by the broken bridge by the embankment to the lilac girl holding an oil-paper umbrella in DaiwangShuyu Lane, when the prosperity ends, only lonely is left. When Lei Feng xizhao, who is it, picking a green willow from the spring dawn of Su Causeway, sitting under the broken bridge on the shore of Xizi Lake to write poetry lines, writing about the past and present lives of the blue water, and writing about the west lake spring that is fascinated by smoke and rain.
Three more suddenly in the spring of Jiangnan, under the eaves of Maozi listened to the leaks, listened to the silent mountain forest, the depths of the rainforest, the wind was clear, the clouds were light, the oblique pipe blew lonely, holding the oil-paper umbrella, wandering alone in the long, empty and lonely rain alley, a lilac-like girl with a grudge, like a dream of misery and confusion. She has the color of lilacs, the fragrance of lilacs, the sorrow of lilacs, and she mourns in the rain, and she mourns and wanders, and in the lament of the rain, she exudes the sorrow of the lilacs.
Life is difficult to remember, I would rather escape into the empty door, a fallen leaf from nowhere, wake up the late autumn wind, depression torments my eyebrows. Who understands the bitterness and sorrow in my heart, late autumn is coming, this is a season of sorrow, life is like a lonely picture, this familiar sadness and sorrow once again staged the sadness of parting, wandering will see what to see, worried about sadness, after all, there is no escape, there are thoughts in the heart, want to say rest, but the day is cool for a good autumn!
A little sadness, a little sadness, tonight, it is difficult to sleep, maybe only this blue sea and blue sky of the bright moon can relieve my sorrow a little. The man standing there, the gentle strings of love flowing with thoughts, what kind of a chance encounter, let that heart as deep as autumn water, stirring up the spring that has never been seen before, the end of the long dream can not be found, the shadows are full of lonely figures, tonight, who is stirring the moon under the acacia song, playing a mournful and broken intestine? All that should have passed away has passed away, all the good things have not yet been beautiful, keeping, hoping, dreaming, he xi, the king will come, lead me out of the dream of the boudoir.
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