Under the fingertips, the ink fragrance lingers a little of eternal love. Tears in the eyes, dreams and souls, composing gentle words of several lifetimes. Depart from sorrow, turn into a note, ripple a few volumes of beautiful chapters. Western fog roller blinds, moonlight frost. Looking back, sighing that the years were like water, the years were old, the face was old, how can a love word not be old.
Waving under the fingertips, downplaying the drizzle of spring and autumn in Jiangnan, writing a thousand words of love between the lips, in the smoke waves of the next world, enjoying the bleak sorrow of flowers falling alone! I once wrote the light fragrance of a yellow flower in the dark night of a dream; I once wrote a cold and worried prose chapter under a broken moon.
I once wrote a line of poetry with a light and ancient rhyme in the smoke of cooking. Brilliantly a neon fire outside the loneliness, pale with a thick language as soft as water. White dew frost, flower shadow gradually haggard, thinking of the past feelings, lightly rippled a wave of wandering hope, the touch of acacia, written as a drizzle of slightly falling lingering, from grace to obsession, lingering in the dream!
Who is my finger in the past? Who is the hope in my volume? These warm and cold handwriting, along with the softness of the breeze, tirelessly sprinkle the dream time of a thousand years! Drunk between the lines, counting the few wisps at the shan. Jade fingers are slightly cold, smoke and rain. Que Que Song Words, Volumes and Chapters, buried the gentleness of the first life, rippled the delicate fangs of the Qi Dynasty.
A few feelings of affection, a little bit of pity, faded in a pool of autumn water, let me, wrapped in the rhyme of a thousand years like a flower flying lightly, wandering in the poetic brocade scroll hazy fluttering! Water sleeve style, thin fingers flowing rhyme, a little light ink condensed a sadness. This gentle song of clear words, indulging in rhyme in the dust, laughing and singing for a thousand years.
Leave the sorrow lightly, twist it on the fingertips, wave into the Tang poems and Song words, pour out the heavy landscape of the dust in the next life, don't hate the shadows, let me spit out the incense of the heart and let the delicate face go when I study the ink pen. Stacked thoughts, pulses for a long time, only the shadow is lonely, sighing that after the autumn leaves are red, why did the flowers fall and be fragrant, adding sorrow and sadness, the piano sounded up, with that exquisite and gentle juan finger, playing with the melody of Yan Xianghuan, qu Wan's words were clear, but it was like a cuckoo mourning and crying blood, don't mean short and long.
Drink a thousand glasses of wine, Xiao Lou several heavy sorrows, day and cloud migration, so, let the fingers of the green silk cut off the breeze, invite a touch of jade this month to pick up sorrows, a thousand sails over, the wind without a trace, the night is not central, who knows? Who knows? A few inches of soft intestines, looking at the way back, where people are, the bits and pieces of the past, just like a river of spring water!
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