When the flowing fingertips gently draw your appearance, the eyes cut out, but your fading back. My heart is like a dream, worshiping the fading past, the wet watch. The dreams I grew up in the autumn night had to be hidden in the window hanging on the winter night.
Do you know how many times I have gripped the hem of my skirt in the wind to watch over you? How many times have I tiptoed in the rain to bless you? Who weaves the slightest wisp of thought into the dream, who agrees in the dream to let the love of the past life be fulfilled in this life, and who draws the love in the dream, so that the promise blossoms and blossoms in the wind and the moon?
Who is full of expectations in my words, and who is crammed with spring breeze on my voyage? Looking up at the night sky, the stars are shining, but which star is my unswerving watch? Can't see through, your deep gaze; can't guess, your deep thoughts; can't touch, your lonely heartbeat; can't paint, the appearance of your soul.
You can only let your silhouette drown in the night, and you can only try to seal those hard past. The midnight moonlight blooms your pupils, and the indifference of the night is full of painful longing. I suppressed my inner ties and prayed that winter would give me a snowflake. Then, with the purest soul, nirvana oneself into a pure lotus.
Waiting is destined to be an acacia robbery in the red dust. A brush, painting the flowers and flowers blossoming and thanking the ground full of sadness, but can not draw the deep hidden sincerity of the heart. Smile and sigh. Do you know that ever since I met you, you are a picture that you can never copy enough and cannot finish?
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