Author: Zhang Xueyong
Spring is far away, summer is long, how many flowers are in place, and the red path is full of red. The wind has an appointment, the flowers have a period, a flute, and the wheat covers the line.
In early summer, a rain damps the beautiful year, a wisp of incense, through the soul alley. The nostalgia of the fingertips, written with exquisite thoughts, is almost a night of white moonlight, becoming clear and quiet.
The lights in the distance, spreading out the slow heart, that is the hometown of dreams. In that affectionate dialogue, it is the falling flowers and tears, and the moon is sad.
Perhaps only a date with the wind can have a peace of mind. Sitting in front of the window, the wind shakes the bamboo forest, and the fish play in the lotus pond. After turning over thousands of mountains and mountains, I found a hundred turns back to my heart.
The wind has an appointment, the flowers have a period, if the beauty in front of you can be drunk, may you be as gorgeous as summer flowers, full of paper time can be chased. If you are gentle and deep, may you be as romantic as water, and your eyes will be full of clouds.
If the past can be remembered, the pen is thin and the poetry is cold, the inkstone is wild and the clouds are light, and the fate takes root. How many old years have been twisted into lonely poems. Draw a landscape freehand, and you slowly grow old.
Life should always be a little picturesque, without green waters and green mountains, a point of Zen rhyme, two points of poetry for the years. Even if the time starts from the other, it can't escape the peaceful years of time.
A wisp of cooking smoke can be drunk in the morning, a bird's cry, and a beautiful pillow of dreams. It's just such a little leisure, just such a small scene, enough to be happy for the rest of your life, and the journey is beautiful.