On the paper of time, there are many old dreams, a few petals of flowers, the years are yellow, the past is written full of moments of fanghua, the style of drunken red makeup for ten miles, watching peach blossoms fall full of poetry notes, and so on.
The past is always safe, even if it is full of sorrow; tomorrow is always gentle and peaceful, even if it is full of old wounds.
In the depths of time, in the depths of destiny, pure heart, pure smoke, heavenly mountains and colors, from the stream, anything.
The stone is the stove, the broom is warm and porridge, in the moving place of time and shade, in the moving place of life, the things and I forget, the light and the happy, the fence wall wears flowers, and it is appropriate to be quiet.
One night of cool rain, autumn leaves fell to the ground, only to find that it was already autumn and winter shallow, prosperous and thin, autumn water twilight, full of rivers and mountains, layers of forest stained.
When the wind blew through the layers of buildings, the broken geese were leisurely, an old song, and the blue boat at that time was wrinkled.
When the rain, pouring the night sadness, the sound of the plantain, a glass of light wine, confused the sadness in the sound of the horse's hooves.
A few autumn flowers fall, write thin old words like water, write moonlight sprouting in a window, write that the breeze settles in the past, write the other side of the dream, write the folds of time.
A few pages of the past are broken, falling deeply sad like yesterday, the time of going to go is still the same, the old is not transparent, the wounds of the past are forgotten, can not be taken away, and the wind is blown by the wind when I was a child.
Everyone's heart is a city, where there is a shallow fate that collects one after another, where there are half-window roses, beautifully open, there is a room of style, lonely and lonely.
Some people say that time has condensed countless events into beads, preserved, and left for two people who love each other, counting together in the twilight, which are the faint joy of the clouds, which are the long thoughts in the noise of the cars and horses, and the red dust of the past and the youthful countenance.
All the past is the prologue, as if in the past, a complete ending has been written. And you and I, just walk in the joy of this moment, settle in the present, do not think about the past, do not fear the future.
On that day, the green silk was dipped in snow, and in that life, the road was full of smoke.
A round of moon, a gust of wind, a book, a page of spring wind, peach blossom noodles, apricot blossom eyes, willow waist spring thin; a page of summer cool, night cicadas, rice flowers, listen to the sound of frogs; a page of autumn wind, sycamore autumn, plantain sorrow, the night deep hedge a light; a page of first snow, a painting blank, a journey of the past, a paper cold and warm.
Wind strings, sun and moon pianos, heart planting flowers and trees, meditation room, playing another song, bouncing off the wrinkles of the forehead, breaking the calluses of the world, even if the years are late, but more leaky like a lotus.
We will eventually grow old, in the affectionate years, in the thin and cool world, when the mirror is collected, the green silk snow, the twilight rises, reading this year, it is already the evening scene, the heart is desolate.
We will eventually grow old, tired of reading poetry, tired of walking, leaving home, forgetting the way back, who make new friends, who look down on the style, who tells the past, who stirs the heartstrings.
May the sunset go down, the birds return to the old forest, and the pond fish return to the old abyss; may the green silk dip in the white snow, just you are there, I am also there, the most beautiful understanding, also.
Once upon a time, we were all wanton people, there was a journey of mountains and water sprinkling feelings, there were fish and flowers to go, the wind sent bamboo to the leisure, there were thousands of poems, wine a thousand coveted. Several people had looked at the prince's frivolity.
Only in the end, we all became slaves to the years, hurriedly following behind time, forgetting what we wanted to pursue in the first place, and what we are getting now.
How many sorrows and joys and ups and downs in life have already passed; how many loves and hates have fallen into dust.
I still love this world, only for the warmth of a porridge and a meal, the lightness of a tea and a wine, the compassion of an inch of time, the style of a piece of poetry, the depth of a piece of old things, and the Zen heart of a song of clouds and water.
Spring one thought, autumn one thought, four hours do not read the heavens and the wasteland are exhausted; love a thought, hate a thought, love and hate do not read the sea of dry stones rotten endlessly.
May this time be dull, if it is brilliant at that time, may you love the grass and trees of this world, a thought of flowers, a thought of flowers falling; may you love the fireworks of this world, the years are long, and the four seasons are unharmed.
May the days be as bright as light, gentle and peaceful, and may you and I, sincere and courageous, rejoice in sight.