Author: Zhang Xueyong
The first rain in light summer, three thousand prosperous nights are cool, a lovesickness, a long dream. Piecing together a piece of the past, listening to the rain in front of the window, opening a page of thoughts, and feeling sad.
Who cuts out the lines of poetry from the past? Who will collect Bo Liang yesterday? The years are the poems of the fragrance of peach and plum, and the years are the thin coolness of the rain and wet mood. I don't have time to savor yesterday's nostalgia, but I have already stood in today's love.
Time is mottled, the heart is soft, and those old memories are stranded on the road of the journey. Who have you been with to see the sea? With whom did you swear to share a white head? The morning bell and dusk drums, the fireworks flowed for a long time, all this was never remembered, nor forgotten.
A key opens a lock, and a fate knows a person. The wind in May may blow a bush of green, or it may blow a clump of flowers. The power of compassion is always to grace half an acre of flower fields and lock a courtyard of smoke and rain.
At the intersection of summer, the mountain rain enters the lamp, the moon pours into the painting, some people warm wine and make tea, and some people meet each other. If there is still a trace of infatuation in the blank space of the past, just piece together a piece of the past, listen to the rain in front of the window, open a page of heart, and tell tenderness.
Whose heart falls between the eyebrows, empty and affectionate, whose story picks up the fingertips and spells it into a poem. Good wishes, falling into the acacia, the years are cocooned, a line of rain, provoked Jiangnan, and the pen is melancholy.
A beautiful part of life is: you are here, I happened to meet, you go, I leave you gentle in memories. You are my memory, I am your life. Someday, the dust will settle on this page. You are my landscape, I am all yours.