Author: Zhang Xueyong
Spring is deep and the line is not young, time is not young, turning a page of the years is warm, listening to the raindrops and water.
In the late spring of April, the valley rain has passed, a line of smoke and rain moistens the spring, and a line of wind and fragrance comes at night. In your spare time, looking at the moon at Pinghu, when you come, the clouds and mountains and rivers are light, and when you go, tears fall in two lines.
A painting in April, a stroke of mountains and rivers is far away, and a stroke of grass and trees is green. How many past events, can't delete yesterday's memories, how much nostalgia, and let go of the arrangements of the past life.
Time is not young, draw a boat and listen to the rain. Maybe one day, when we return from a tired boat, we will count the years in a cup of tea, and tell our thoughts in the tick-tock.
A line of poems on the tip of the pen, a handful of tea in the palm of your hand, may you be with the time, gently holding hands, the breeze is blowing, and the dream has gradually drifted away.
The flowers fall silently, and the rain falls with affection. Draw a light smile, sit opposite time, lead a line of smoke and rain, stroke the piano and listen to the music. The wind wraps around the branches and the flowers are fragrant, and the stream flows rapidly over the rocks.
The old page of time, love a line of poetry, light a past, leave a soft intestine. The foggy mountains are dark, and the eyes are half regretful. All the missing, the night is cool, all the past, all the years are blank.
Maybe the end of life is a blank piece of paper, or maybe the yesterday of the years is a bowl of fireworks. The rain falls on the red dust, the old dreams and new loves, the past that cannot be found, and the years are cocooned.
With the wind comes not only the rain, but also the sorrow of the past. It's not just you who go with the wind, but also clear dreams.
If I could, I would like to be a drop of rain, watch the lonely years, and watch the sunset at the old ferry.
A plain heart to be simple, the years are deep and half lonely. If I can, I am willing to listen to the wind and rain at the stone bridge in my hometown, and wait for yesterday's meeting.