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.
Speechless, always in the story precipitation, aftertaste is sublimated in precipitation. A painting of life, the painting contains too much sorrow and joy ink, dense with too much bittersweet tones. No base color, no end, the journey of life landscape, has been vicissitudes of the story of all the past, but also washed away the days of flat and narrow, painted into a touch of peace on the heart, a quiet. Sadness will eventually melt, in the quiet thoughts flow into clear streams, bumps will eventually freeze frame, in the distance of memory depicted as a line of water. In the face of the diversity of life, searching and searching, the result is condensed in a light word, opening my heart and discovering that many of the past are just the whispers of flowing light. What kind of choice is itself a solution, and what kind of answer is itself a touch of purity. Three thousand weak waters, only one scoop is taken, and the world is vast, but simplicity is the top.
Inadvertently, the warmth hidden in the time, like a wisp of smoked wind, brushed through the gap of sitting idle, and fell into the courtyard of nostalgia. How many past events have become backs, how many backs have been engraved into nostalgia, bit by bit, let the words have temperature, let the memory have poetry. The playfulness of childhood is gone, and the turned page seems to be able to be memorized; the smoke of the hometown is gone, and the scenery across the shore can vaguely reappear in the local accent. Some stories have been fragmented, but many details have been washed clean and simple, warming every inch of time, warming the friendship and love that have passed through the wind and rain.
The long reverie, as you walk, returns to your heart. Sitting alone is a form, loneliness is a way, leading to the firewood hedge wild chrysanthemum in Nanshan, and to the bright moon and breeze in Dongshan. At this time, the time of a person flows between the lines, clear to the bottom, and the mind is transparent, as thin as moonlight. This is a silent world, no hustle and bustle, summer comes, but you can't get tired of seeing each other, winter comes, but you can fish the cold river snow alone, pillow a few lines of poetry, silent words and self-reflection, dust and wind do not disturb. At this moment, you can read through the throbbing in the hidden stories, retrieve the thoughts that have been covered with vines, and open a bright small window for yourself in the corner of the dark night, allowing the moonlight song in the long memory to blow in, and you instantly become a self-appreciator, eliminating the gratuitous loss, and converting to the inner Bodhi. You don't need a cup of tea or a half-volume of books, and you can come at your own leisure.
Time knows the taste, the landscape knows the heart, every inch of time lives the bitterness and sweetness of life, every frame of landscape contains the thick color of consonance, and every grass and tree, cloud and stream in the landscape, spit out the simple breath of life, observing the inner leisure and peace. Looking at the mountains as mountains, looking at the water as water, how much smoke has passed, how many streams have flowed, and how many silent voices have listened to, only then can the original mountains, the original water, in the four regions of a heart, resound the long-distance Zen sound of clouds and water. A piece of stone, whether it is rugged or well-behaved, the mountain is always in its heart; a moss, dark green or light gray, the stone is always in its heart. One thing and one person, no matter how big or small, no matter how deep, interdependence is harmony, and entering the heart is peace. This mountain, stone, and moss will have layered scenery and the compassion you understand.
You can see the distance and the near with one eye, and you can realize the movement with one heart. Maolin cultivates bamboo, flowing and curved water, the joy of life is often missed in endless sighs. Facing the gully, when you turn around, the road is full of youth, and the scenery of life always favors everyone's way of coming, hidden in a corner of time and space, appearing at will, and blooming at will. Even with a bitter boat with a leaf, you can go to a place where the water is poor, when you sit and watch the clouds rise, the tranquility of your heart is the cloud, the cloud is comfortable, and you are happy; even if you are separated by heavy restrictions, you can also have river flowers and fragrant grass, which do not dye my love field, and the leisure of your heart is that the river flowers bloom and the grass is lush. The noise of the crowd will eventually disappear in the mountains and rivers, a hustle and bustle, far less than the mountains and rivers that you know, hide, extend your heart infinitely, and condense your feelings silently. Therefore, in a frame of "the intersection of sorrow and joy", the compassionate sigh, the experience of life is exhausted, and in a line of "returning to people on a snowy night", the warm conversion, the hardships of reality, until the spring flowers bloom in the depths of your soul.
In the pages of the fleeting years, many stories have turned yellow, but the ink fragrance of the fallen characters is more and more mellow. In my spare time, I often taste Ma Yuan's "Cold River Alone Fishing Map", the corner of the mountain, the end of the water, only half of it is taken, the landscape is all in my heart, the emptiness overflows outside the picture, I like to appreciate Yunlin's "Sparse Forest Cottage", the cold forest wasteland, a bleak, slightly the color of the mountains and waters, a little bustling, only a heavy sense of ease is left, hidden in my chest. A tree blooms in life, and that vitality does not lie in the density, but in the choice. If you should collect it, you will collect it, and if you should hide it, so you can know how to plant a ridge, and embrace half an acre of bright, and be compassionate.
Tibet is a kind of understanding, is to understand the deepest compassion in a pool. If you don't come, I'm still here, Tibet is a watchdog, only tracing the promise that has faded in my heart; if the time doesn't come, the scenery is still there, Tibet is a relief, an eternal smile left by trekking on the other side of pain; if you can't read it, your heart is still there, Tibet is a stream of tranquility, bathed in the fireworks of the years, attacked the clear joy of fleeting years, and let yourself clearly listen to the pure Sanskrit sound in your heart.
If a scene comes as promised, if a farewell comes unexpectedly, then in the name of compassion, treasure it in the alley of the heart of understanding, and outside the alley, see the small bridge, flowing water, people, light still, quiet as usual.