Author: Zhang Xueyong
The early summer is far away, and the midsummer is coming. How many flowers, a gorgeous summer, how many solar terms, and the scenery is transferred.
A pool of lotus flowers and a wisp of incense, half the city is half smoke and rain and half crazy. The flute sounded at dusk, and how many flowers were dyed with wind and rain.
The early summer is far away, and the midsummer is coming. Flowers have an appointment, the rain is not wrong, the breeze is gusting, and a wind and rain are cool overnight.
In the elegant dictionary, there are exquisite thoughts, and in the past of complaining, I lost my dreams. Reading a page of time, the lights are dim, the land is innocent, and the old things are desolate.
Time is endless, the years are like water, at this age, it has passed the amorous moment of chasing flowers and dreams. There are only occasional nostalgia left, and I will remember the warmth, let the beauty be a guest in the heart, and be quiet in front of the coffee in a daze.
In the end, what is crossed by a person's life is only their own cognition, leaving only the excitement of the moment.
If the past can be traced, I would like to forget the smoke and rain in a chapter of poetry; If the past can be drunk, I am willing to let go lightly in my eyes. The old pavilion, last month, the rain in the middle of summer.
Perhaps one morning, a wisp of cooking smoke drifted into a dreamland, and a bird's cry broke the silence. A small song, a small scene, and then a little leisure, tea boiling time.
Summer dreams are shallow, the nights are short and the days are long, may the love in your heart never give up, may the time not be old, and the lotus is just right.