Author: Zhang Xueyong
A dream of passing years, you and I meet. The red makeup is light and low-browed, and the half-city spring lock is affectionate. In time, a person has beautified the past, a relationship, and it happened to be in flowering.
The spring garden can't be closed, and a branch of red apricot comes out of the wall. Those past events that fall into the years are hidden in the poems and read in the rain alley. A light sentence, a thick line, warm and cold time.
There is always a love, which coincides with the flowering period, and there is always a person who has been beautiful. Looking back, it is a glimpse of ten thousand years. Heart-warming attachment makes it difficult to escape the catastrophe.
I don't know when there was only one you left in my heart. The flowers are blooming and the city is beautiful for you, and the autumn water is looking through, just to wait for you. Since then, the sorrowful agarwood, the east wind is speechless.
I don't know what year it is, looking at the moon in the wind. How much hatred in the world, Fan Dai Qingxi. The pear blossoms are as white as snow, not as good as peach and plum flowers.
Maybe the best affection is not a glance for ten thousand years, maybe the best lovesickness is not life and death. Some feelings stop at the lips and teeth, and cover up in the passing years.
If the love is precious, I miss it in my heart. Not in the prosperity of the years, not in the romantic fireworks, walking through the sea, tasting joys and sorrows. A porridge and a tea are warm, and a love is a wish.
Many years later, I still remember who held up the oil-paper umbrella. Who is through the flowers and things and falls into the red dust.
When the flowers bloom, the thought is infatuated. Look at each other in three inches of time, and carry wine in the light of ten miles of lake. The moonlight lives up to the passing years, who is taking a flat boat to break through the sky like water and frost?
There is always a relationship, coinciding with the flowering period, and there is always a person who has beautified the past. The wind knocks on the wood door to send spring, and the butterflies warm the year. That person is your tenderness, and that poem is your blankness.
Falling leaves chasing the wind and lovesickness, why not wait for the wind in the coming year?