White dew on the autumn night, thin shirt is difficult to withstand the cold, shallow sleepless, get up in the moonlight, love is thousands! The heart is filled with tears. Cloud lock Zhu Lou, plain clothes linfeng, the heart is like a touch of clouds, it is difficult to harvest, candle tears burned out, heartache is full of heart, fuqin chanting Oh, add a lot of expectations and waiting!
In the red dust fireworks, drink a cup of raccoon stream water, how many points of carmine are soaked in clear notes? The woman who dances the words with water sleeves, the white clothes win the snow, the sleeves contain incense, the style rhymes, the ice and snow are dusty, the light affection, the softness is like the diffuse mist, the lonely footsteps are gently moved, and the cold moon incense enters the night!
That autumn night, there was the sorrow of falling leaves in the autumn wind, and the wind of The Depression blew up her white sleeves, and under the moonlight it seemed to be a plain butterfly, struggling with the sadness of the desolation of late autumn! When the flowers on the other side bloomed, the beauty of the country passed through her pupils, but there was a wave of sadness, as if telling the wordless desolation.
Her sadness is like the February smoke and rain in Jiangnan, and her veins are in the fragrance of that old book; her sadness is the mist of the West Lake in Ten Mile, and the ripples are in the bend of her eyebrows! The rain and fog are ethereal, the embankment is blowing smoke willows, and the fine fragments are scattered with dust; the water of the Autumn River carries a torrent of thoughts!
Who's singing in shallow chants? Who's dancing in neon? Who carried the millennium of attachment? A wisp of reincarnation, wrapped around the fingertips, where the pen falls, a moonlight in the moonlight, full of acacia, moaning in the quiet night of each month! Linger in the floating incense.
The silence of the smoke willows finally carried many sorrows, the dew condensed into clear tears, and a little residual incense looked forward to breaking the dream. Plain heart with snow, proud and paranoid like her, fragrant like water, only to stay sad. And she is destined to be a butterfly that can't fly in the sea, and the feelings on those notes are poisoned into the bones, dyed white hair, and withered red face! She was destined to be just a passer-by floating cloud between his brows!
Looking at the column from afar, stacking a wisp of moonlight, full of waves, lonely shadow, holding the scroll, in the silent poetry book, listening to the harmony of the strings; in the most gorgeous years, quietly listening to the flowers blooming in the dream, repairing a tree's flowers like a brocade, only hoping that words, paper, ink, and tea will accompany each other, and the fragrant dream will be deep!
The fragrance of the moonlight is lingering, and the low is low, but I am willing to fold my wings into this clear moon shadow, and use this broken text book to compose a thin memory, and float this memory on the branches, condense into frost, let me cover up the pain and loneliness you give, and retreat to the beginning of the rolling red dust!
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