Xia poured out the last touch of Red, brushing away the cold of late autumn. The innocence that surged in my heart added a little warmth to this autumn. Holding a cup of tea, sitting in front of the screen, habitually coming to your space, quietly watching, sentence overflowing, silently tasting, words flowing incense.
Words, under your fingers like the dance of the elves, are wonderful. Or rough and bold, strong and fierce; or enthusiastic as fire, swinging intestines; or gentle and lingering, like a girl with a smile like a flower. Suck the ink fragrance of your poems, linger, indulge, forget...
You, like a breeze, blowing from the sky, crossed the vicissitudes of autumn, the solemnity of autumn, and directly hit the window of my heart. The unworldly lines of poetry, sprinkled on the heart, the beautiful words, the mellow fragrance of autumn fruits, drunk my eyes. You weave a web of words, you net my thoughts, and you also roll my soft intestines. This autumn, I exile my thoughts, beside your poems.
Autumn Xiao Ser, in your poems fade away, like the feelings of water leisurely blooming, looking at the clouds and water days long, gently smelling the shallow incense of autumn chrysanthemums, the tenderness of the heart, silently growing. Think about how clear your smile is? Your fingertips are staggering, and the dancing poetry soul, unconsciously, messes up our square inches.
A period of time, a night, a dream. My mind is like a flower, and I just want to compose a poem of love for you; a crescent moon, a flowing cloud, a falling flower. I whisper softly, I only wish to give you a season of high mountains and long waters; the other shore is fragrant, on the side of the water, in the water of the mei, I look forward to staring, just to smell the fragrance, quietly guard the paradise of dreams.
Cut a candlelight and burn incense quietly for you. Place your poems in your heart and turn them into soft intestines word by line. Incessant chanting, flowing like a cotton fragrance. Make offerings reverently, just ask, heart, dormant in your lines of poetry, flowing in peace. Late at night, no sleep. A wisp of silver shine penetrated the window screen and poured on the desk.
If you want to pick a wisp of autumn gentleness, rub the strings for you, how can it refer to the weak strength, can not knock out the agitated melody; want to cut a touch of gold, write poetry for you, but the words are thin and thin, can not paint colorful poems; want to dance for you, however, clumsy dance posture, can not be unworldly worldly neon dress.
The moon is like water, and the soft light is poured. Autumn colors, released in the whisper of falling leaves. Embracing the poetic autumn, condensing a petal of heart incense, gathering thousands of strands of tenderness, gently swinging boundless thoughts., at this time, I just want to dance with your words, follow the ink fragrance through the road you are passing, at the ferry of reincarnation, silently waiting for the drunken encounter, waiting for you to stare.
Will you sniff the incense from the other shore? The wind is getting colder and the leaves are drifting. Is the yellowing of autumn a barren season of waiting, or is there a hope of green? Wish, the heart flow dark incense, all the way to the warmth.
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