On rainy days, it is always easy to evoke deep thoughts in the depths of the heart, those who are far away, those yellowed pictures, inadvertently, flash in the mind.
The rain fell from the dark blue eaves, like the tears of some sad person, dripping with a sad sadness.
In the sound of the dripping rain, the corners of the memories are turned over, and the thoughts gradually open up in the smoke and rain.
Wait for a smoke and rain, coming from the bluestone alley, under the oil-paper umbrella, locking in the flow of time that has loved and lived up to.
Wait for a smoke and rain, in the small courtyard of the white wall of Jiangnan Dewa, cook a pot of fragrant tea, and taste the long acacia.
Wait for a smoke and rain, in the strange red dust, leave the story of a lifetime in the light of time, watch the years slowly grow old.
There is three more rains on the leaves of the sycamore, and the sound of the leaves is parted.
The rain of Sangen falls on the leaves of the sycamore, with the coolness of autumn. A leaf, a sound, are parting thoughts.
In every rainy season, I miss you, I miss the parting of the hand, I miss my affectionate gaze, I miss your distant back.
Thoughts are falling flowers in the light rain, the loneliness of a place that is suddenly unprepared; it is the drops of the night before the steps, and it is the light cold that accompanies the tossing and turning on the pillow.
Is there really a love of life and death in this world, like the green mountains and green waters in the smoke and rain, picturesque every year, dependent on each other?
Whether there is really an eternal acacia in this world, like the moonlight on a small building, from lack to circle, from round to lack, but can walk through the vast years.
Maybe happiness will always linger outside the window, and the so-called love affair may have been a beautiful mistake from the beginning.
The clear water is endless, how many people are just lonely souls in love, can only guard a lamp, a lonely night, listen to a curtain of rain, think of a person.
The wind and rain are obscure, and the chickens are chirping. Seeing the gentleman, Yun Hu did not like it.
Azure waits for smoke and rain, and I am waiting for you.
I am waiting for you in time, you step out of acacia and come, I gently tell you, it is raining, really miss you.
I'm in Gangnam, waiting with you for a smoke and rain, and water droplets fall from the edge of the oil-paper umbrella, like the time we have loved and missed.
When you close your eyes and listen to the rain falling on the banana leaves, listen to the wind pacing quietly in the garden, and smell the flowers passing in the wind.
One stormy morning, you returned in the rain, as if coming from that unfinished dream, from thousands of people coming and going, from the depths of the rivers and mountains shrouded in smoke and rain, in that ordinary alley.
Knowing that you will always return, I am willing to wait alone in the scenery of the setting sun; because I know that you will guard the firewood gate, no matter how much wind and rain, I will also return.
After tasting those lonely and waiting nights, tasting the death of those years, I am still determined and willing to wait for you to return in the depths of time.
With the courage to walk all over the rivers and mountains, I have seen the three thousand prosperity of the world, but the road home has never been deserted. One day, I will come back in the wind and rain, because I know that someone is waiting for me to come home.
The Red Chamber looked at each other cold in the rain, and the bead foil lantern returned alone.
One thought, ten thousand waters and thousands of mountains; one thought extinguishes, the vicissitudes of the sea and mulberry fields.
Rain, with a desolate meaning, the night is deep, listen to the wind and rain, lightning and thunder, countless flowers, is the sky crying, or the flowers are sighing?
The best scenery always falls in the depths of memory. So it's best not to revisit the old place, because those broken feelings are difficult to pick up after all. In the familiar scenery, there are too many sad feelings.
Waiting is a silent old age; acacia is a faded year.
In the early morning of the spring rain, the red path is full of red, and the acacia is like a stream, shattering into a lonely place. Those yellowed stories are just like the light smoke of flowing water, the hastily dispersed, and it is difficult to look back.
I have some thoughts, separated from each other in the distance. I felt something, knotted in a deep intestine.
Love brews old lovesickness in the years, you have come, I have loved, this life is not a regret.
The rain outside the window is constantly falling, ticking, as if telling a desolate story!
The twilight rain is swift, not hurried, not slow, the eaves and tiles are all the sound of rain, the light smoke in the courtyard is faint, and the wet tenderness flows out.
I am thinking of the man who has traveled far, I am waiting for the return of that man. The years will be old, and the years of acacia will be knotted in the depths of the soft intestines.
The drizzle is like silk, the cold is tender, and the mist is also sentimental.
The ruthless is the willow, which does not care about the change of seasons, does not ask about the vicissitudes of the world, and takes care of itself on the ten-mile long causeway of smoke and rain, swaying style.
Obsessed with the person who walks in the rings of the year, year after year of waiting, year after year of lovesickness, wandering in the loneliness of waiting, and wandering in the smoke and rain of lovesickness.
In the vast red dust, how many people are guarding the lonely corners of the city, guarding the long nights, guarding those slightly drunk loves, guarding those missed love affairs, and growing old alone
If every blossom is a meeting, then every smoke and rain is a memorial.
