If the years pass and my face withers into a clear vine, will you listen to the wind of this half window with me? If not, please allow me to settle the dust, let the past return to the dream, can be calm, it is also a kind of calm.
Morning, no wind. The temperature outside is cool, there is a kind of coldness through the skin, as if time just blinked, and when you look back, it is already autumn. The season has always been such a hurry, such a clear vein that makes people have no time to touch and look carefully, a wind rises, or a night of rain, it has already gone to the old time.
However, for me, that kind of old is not really astringent and old, nor is it far away from the mountains and waters, but a pure preparation and sublimation in the heart. Old things and old thoughts, like a thin cotton shirt, although not as colorful and beautiful, are always warmed by a feeling that reaches the heart.
Therefore, I always believe that all samsara in all things is a practice of life, and there may be too many unavoidable sharp edges, as long as you learn to grow in the sun, and regard the big feelings and small scenes as an incomparably warm watch, so that all compassion will be a piece of music full of color.
I hid behind a leaf and listened, listening to the wind creeping up the walls of time, and inadvertently stirring dreams for a long time. Listen to whose footsteps cross the veins of the distant peaks and peaks, and wake up the dormant autumn. The sound of the rain is so light, like a misty morning, the small order of the clear words, has not been written full, and it can't wait to be read by you.
In the story of time, we always like to dust certain passages in the memory, just for the day of aging, there can be a beautiful shadow. The frivolity of youth, the sentimentality of middle age, are no longer the dappled dreams of the years, have come, passed, I am still here, is the deepest attachment and affection.
Many times, I like to talk to the time and yin, but what I say is not Zen, I am talking about the taste of the world is pure joy. I also like to write some thin thoughts on plain paper, maybe it is just very messy, but I enjoy the ease and ease of the soul flying. The Buddha said that everything is a mirror flower and a moon, which cannot be forced or encountered. Then, which period will your pure language be pasted into, and whose psalms will you obstinately decorate?
These, if contemplated, are ultimately a continuation of the cycle of cause and effect, a kind of unexplainable love. Therefore, this life is pure and cheerful, half a load of thin thoughts, which can be seen as the wind under the eyes of the eyes. In the end, with the most beautiful arc in the light autumn, it floats up to the sky, and it is lonely and falls into the human world of fireworks.
Perhaps, from this early autumn morning, the strands of hair that had been broken by longing were collected by me in a wisp, until the whole autumn had passed, until the news that the snow covered the mountains and rivers. By then, the full daisies have withered, the birds of the jungle have disappeared, and I will only cling to my inner affection, and when the water's bank is frozen, in the north wind howling, I will burn for you one by one.
Years, like the old tree in the courtyard, the lush green leaves are like the lord of the summer, perhaps, in just one morning, the luxury has disappeared.
Therefore, we should not worry that time will grow old, nor should we lament that we will lose each other when the lead is washed away, and when the Buddha crosses the world, he says, leaving and letting go is good karma, loving, understanding, is compassion. The human heart is a shoal, even if it is a wilderness without a master, or a flying flower, good with others, good with oneself, with the flower low eyebrows, with the wind to show face, so little bits, are the joy generated by the inner thoughts.
When the wind blew, I said that I could plant my dreams into the autumn wheat fields, and let joy complete a season of golden collisions in the ups and downs of the waves. At that time, I can sit quietly on the field of the years, listen to the sparkling promises, when to start, and when to grow old in the twilight drum and morning bell.
Waiting is a long vine with long years. Through the green and green, wading through the green water, from this intersection to that intersection. When all the viciousness and tenderness are alternately swept away, only the traces of walking are still repeatedly entangled in the gradually thin dreams, and each fragment that emerges is related to missing.
And missing, is the autumn wind of the light rain, falling from the distant sky, like an amorous woman, just a hug makes the fruit of the branch blush cheeks, so that the long-farewell love words are awakened, began to whisper in the pastoral of the heart.
Every day, I ask myself to strive to be a person with a clean heart, a smile that has been modified with heart, walking through the clarity of nature, and every time I look back, it must be the deepest touch in time. Just like the wind in front of the window brings the warmth of the season, it also feathers the dream of the green lotus with a bend. Every day, restrain yourself, try to write some non-noisy words, not greedy, not hurt, a heart frank and dust-free, with a little ink fragrance interpretation calm. Just like the flowers that grow alone in all four seasons, or with the mountains, or by the water's edge, there are incomparably clear skies.
Meet, be grateful, and marry the autumn wind of the things that are too late to write, and all the gentle qingli are regarded as the seeds of a flower planted deep in the memory. One day, those colorful and beautiful gifts, those gifts with deep affection, are the most unparalleled dreams in their eyes. Only sincere delivery can pass through the years and deduce the quiet and beautiful Qingning.
In fact, the years are a simple process of marching, the rain comes and goes, the wind comes late, are the content of time that cannot be changed, if you know how to feel, then all the walks will be the deepest touch. And attentive companionship is a page of incomparably pure language in the heart, such as the fireworks of love stretching between the ordinary and the ordinary, no need for flamboyant style, no need for exaggerated appearances, all the fragrance and warmth, will also be a kind of calm and unhurried attachment.
In the morning, the distant mountains and near the water stared at each other in a touch of fog, following the fragrance of last night's rain and grass, I read you in a page of wind letters, read you in the light and shadow of the years circle by circle stranded news, every touch, every approach, is the way to think of you.
The Buddha said that the search for the roots of all things is nothing but the beginning of a fate, the heart, the nature, the fate, the tranquility in the eyes, the attachment to the red dust, and so on, and so on, and it is also the greatest joy.
The warmth of the four seasons is the wind of spring, the letter of flowers in summer, the sound of water in autumn, the snow mark of winter, and finally, the sweet fragrance of lilies is quietly placed in the palm of the hand. Oh hand, let all the tranquility be rendered into the emptiness of the distant mountains, the figure, sleeping in the poetry page of the Tang Style, the face, growing old in the spring flowers and autumn moon, the heart, is the ease of the porcelain like water.
And I, wish to be just an idle person who comes out of the depths of fireworks, studying ink and pencils, and relying on time and shallow books, and words. Idle a few strokes, no matter how cumbersome, do not ask about the world, only write the time on paper, write the wind and bones of the years, write about the wild interests of the mountains and forests, write about the red dust and love, write about the flow of years like dreams, write about the flowers and incense to moisten the lungs.
Life, such as the scenery of Shaohua, is accustomed to seeing the clouds rise and fall, read all the tides and tides, only the intertwined bits and pieces of the heart are left, with the purity after precipitation, and the idyllic joy.
When the seasons change, all the moisture begins to flow gradually, just like the thin flower between the flowers, no longer intended to linger on the branches of the wind. I sat in the middle of a tree and fallen flowers, twisting flowers into words, hand for ink, touching the silent words of the flowing years to listen to the abundance of the years, so that every writing was frozen in a distant dream, and the affection became poetic and picturesque.
Life, going around and around repeatedly, inadvertently will lack of calm, those who come, go, are remembered one by one, and then properly placed in the heart, I only wait for the years to turn around, I can be reunited with the landscape again.