Cut a silk time, write an old word, between the lines, there is a clear wind and bright moon, containing the love of the yellow wall and chrysanthemum, read in the eyes, it is a story, read in the past, it is a heart sound, read in the years, it is a quiet forest.
The red dust is long, the endless sadness is the most easy to be blinded, the endless chapters are the most easy to be broken-hearted, the sky is high and the clouds are light, and the gaze is far from the distance. Who is it, guarding the window alone, dipped in the dark fragrance of Yingxiu, studied the evening drizzle of the sycamore, falling thinner than the text of the yellow flower, wanting to say still? Who is it, the autumn wind's sad fan, with the three-watch falling plum flute, remembering his life in the broken-hearted sound? Who is it, because of understanding, wearing a coat of mercy, because of well-being, blooming a flower from the dust, and blooming a lifetime of loneliness from this flower?
Far away, those sorrows that grow like vines, those almost heartbroken gazes. But time quietly leaves the back of that poem, and after each line of gloomy poems, it pours all the way to fragrance and builds a causeway. The landscape is a pot of wine carefully brewed by time, which needs to be opened at the right place at the right time to be full of mellow. Yes, for the rhythm of the four seasons, a person is often used to the joy of the beginning of the season, the flowers bloom in spring, the snow in search of plums, the melodious and prosperous scene that is gradually improving, the moonlight lotus pond, the evening light maple forest, and the most important thing that cannot be ignored is often the intoxicating silence, a blank space, or even just a silent rest of the resting talisman, the lingering sound of a light music, because they are not just attracting, but also teasing, teasing the murmuring heart of the stream, teasing the vividness hidden in the depths of the years.