Seek, a time. Xu, you and I meet. If, gorgeous turn. Still, a thought of warmth. Leftover, half a lamp is cold. Eventually, the ink marks were scattered. The moss is full of steps, and the flowers are full of paths. I poured myself out, gentle and casual. If love is a practice, I would rather be a monk who cleans the monastery. Dedicate your life to a city for you! The outward appearance is only a symbol, and the inner is piled up with desolation. I know that these words cannot be sent to you, but I only recognize that you are still at the end of the world.
Under the song, each listens. The story of time, quietly carved. There are many emotions, and wisdom will hurt. Ink falls into the dark color, and the age enters the sleeve. Old age has forgotten the world's affairs, gradually drifting away and becoming silent......... Feel a sense of spring, xu a strong feeling. Quietly listen to the Sanskrit sound to give birth to the Buddha, and watch the landscape and water for another spring. Maybe the Zen flower only blooms in the Buddha's realm, and maybe right and wrong are settled in the dust.
I fell into the Red Dust Dojo, and you sat in the lotus glass. The song is still there, and the first generation is buried in the spring breeze. Ink-dyed peach blossoms send spring water, and love words are sung with the wind and shallow. A roll of idle books, half a curtain of spring light. Tranquility is like a piano, and the heart of the text is in the painting. A curtain of dreams, a few bars. Long wind and rain, ethereal. Early spring evenings are perfect for sneaking in with another self hiding in a corner.
Spring, slow return, people, lonely walk. A heart hidden in red dust, holding the ink and walking with elegance. Spring rain, falling thin. Make an appointment and hold an umbrella together. Ten finger buckles, love and dependence. Compassion for each other, accompanied by the day and night. Disturbing the affairs of the world, they can't withstand a cup of tea in their hands. Words, it seems, are getting farther and farther away. The end of the world is getting farther and farther away, and the way back to the night of fireworks. The sea-shaped shadow, the happy face gathers and scatters the dream back. If you want to send plum blossoms, for whom do you dream?
The butterfly dance west wind pen falls, and the light plum ink sticker opens. The morning rain breeze is fluttering, and the window is condensed. A word twisted to the dust, several times in the dream to draw the wind. The light song sways the heart, and the words flutter and flow for years. An ethereal and quiet song, vaguely lingering in the past for a long time. The butterfly dance west wind has gone away early, looking back at the red dust and a few fools. Life has sighed several times in autumn, and the world will end up with a spring dream. The wanli river is soft, and the thousand mountains and clouds dream of the moon are in the building. The amorous note is inked in the next part, and there is no sleep everywhere.
The green mountains are still red at sunset, and things are not different from people; the flower lanterns of the past should still be there, and it is difficult to distinguish the rainbows of the past and the present. The free flying flowers are light like dreams, and the deep edges are shallow and pay the west wind. Wake up red dust like a world away, a thousand years of resentment in the pipe. The smoke and rain of a river have not become a worry, and the years are drifting away without worrying. Purple flowers bloom peach leaves, and Qin Louyue hangs willow tips. Last year, when I looked at the begonias, this evening the moon was soaked in dreams. QingZi did not understand the thinness of the Yi people, and took away the east wind and continued to remain the sun.
Wandering alone in the strange incense, yesterday's peach blossom shadows snuggled, and now there is no word, and the old dream is copied and painted. May flowed, and it was necessary to have a quiet. Remember, the years go by quietly. Thoughts, the years pass quietly. Sigh, if I leave. Eventually, the future will be indefinite. Writing, pondering, picking up flowers, picking up wilts. Instead of grieving, forget. Listen to the streamers flying and watch the years fly by. And I, counting the time in the sun, are at ease.
Strange on the shallow language, the mountain smoke light. Walk by, pass by. A season of spring and autumn, several degrees of reincarnation. Even if it is unique, it is no more than a brocade night. Even if it is gorgeous and gorgeous, it is nothing but desolation and sadness. Laughing young, laughing at the past, laughing at the past, drinking alone into injury, looking forward to returning, looking forward to returning, looking forward to tired, the rain has not stopped.
Qingshan is thin, people are not old, pen ink, heart affection. A note, half a screen of sorrow, flowers between things, lingering meaning. Old city, away from people's dreams. We begin to strengthen our hearts and even participate in the Path of Zen Enlightenment. Not for the universal, but for the sake of crossing. After a thousand years, who is who and who? Indulging in drunken singing should be a kind of freedom, and falling into death is also a kind of life.
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