The story of red dust is like a word in the text, scattered and fragmented. The years that passed quietly, condensed on the shredded poems, were like an illusory dream. A touch becomes a wound, there is nowhere to find, and finally let the prosperity of the prosperous world fall into mud.
After years, how to recline on the railing and drunkenly blow the whistle, looking at the floating and ethereal. Thoughts and loneliness entered the marrow, carrying the affection of life and death, hitting the strings of the bottom of the heart over and over again. Wanting to look forward to infinite emotion, I was speechless and choked, and the desolation that was entangled in the distance finally thanked the curtain of bitter waiting. Unfortunately, the incense has disappeared!
The flowers wither in spring, the incense prints into ash, and only the old words embroidered on the brocade reach the heart sea. A thought becomes obsessed, and in the end it is not comparable to the fanghua of a word...
Three thousand green silks, colorful into the vast snow, leaving behind a lifetime of red. The hundred-turning soft intestines of the twilight of the morning and dusk instantly melted away the vicissitudes of a thousand years, shattered the acacia of a place, and thinned the delicate face of clear eyes! Between the sleeves, the falling red into the wind, the quiet sigh, the faded infatuation, the pain of breaking the curtain of the heart, leaving an empty space.
When the years engulf the sorrows and joys of the three lives, the lonely heart is rubbed into those cookie-cutter acacia ink fragrances, and the soul carries the lingering obsession, and finally sinks into the world you forget. When a drop of cold dew of the dark night falls on the Ziwei flower, I hold the residual dream of last night, wandering in the wind and the moon, across time and space, singing for you!
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