Rain, like silver-gray sticky spider silk, weaves a soft net, covering the whole autumn world, and the sky is dark, like the roof of an old letter house covered with spider silk screens. The gray clouds piled up in the sky are like white powder peeling off the roof. Under the cover of this old roof, everything looks extremely dull. The garden is full of green pebbles and mulberry trees. The color of grass has turned into melancholy yellow, and fresh flowers can no longer be found underground; The delicate daffodils planted outside the dormitory wall hung their heads with tears in their eyes, lamenting their bad luck there. It was only two days of sunny days, and it was such a moldy and steaming rainy day. Only the sweet-scented osmanthus in the corner, the branches have been decorated with a few precious buds into gold. Carefully hidden under the green oval leaves, revealing a little hope of new life germination.
It's raining quietly, only the thin sound of rain. The orange-red house, like an old monk in bright robes, hangs down with his eyes closed and is baptized by the rain. The wet red brick exudes irritating pig blood, which is in sharp contrast with the green laurel leaves under the wall. Grey toad. Jumping in wet and moldy mud; Under the gloomy net of autumn rain, it is the only thing full of joy and life. The mottled gray-yellow pattern on its back corresponds to the dreary sky in the distance, resulting in a harmonious tone. It jumped up with a plop, jumped into the mud from the grass nest, and made a deep splash.
Rain, like silver-gray sticky spider silk, weaves a soft net, which catches the rain of the whole world.
I watched Zhang Xiaofeng's The Sound of Rain.
Yu He.
Once, walking through a lotus pond in the rain, a pool of Lv Yun stretches, with a unique semi-open red lotus in the middle.
I paused in amazement for a moment, as if I couldn't open it. I wanted to have nothing to say, but I waited for a fragrant red lotus!
The rain all over the sky is indifferent, however, there is such a red lotus in the distant gray! Like a pile of fire about to ignite, like a can of color about to pour! I was standing in Chi Pan. Although I didn't want to get the moon, I almost slipped.
Isn't life just a rain? You used to exult in ignorance, you used to ponder in obsession-but more often, you have to endure cold and humidity, helplessness and loneliness, and live with the illusion of sunny days.
However, look at that lotus flower, how selfless and selfless it is in the rain. When there is no sunshine, it is sunshine itself. When there is no joy, it is joy itself! There is such a perfect and self-sufficient world in a lotus flower!
A pool of green, a pool of silent songs, and a humble roadside in the country-is there truth only in philosophy books? Only the institute has the answer? How many beautiful and kind images a simple He Yu has drawn, and how many centuries of pride a slender green leaf has supported!
If there is a load in the pool and a load in my heart, what will happen in the long rainy season?
Along the River During the Qingming Festival
Go to the Palace Museum alone in the rain to see the Riverside Scene at Qingming Festival.
Long scrolls spread out on the table, leaving an intact old scene of the capital of song dynasty. The librarian took the ballpoint pen I used to take notes and replaced it with a pencil, for fear that the ink would pollute the painting-aren't they afraid of tears? Who can wander in the old place without crying?
The green mounds, the warm breeze in the morning and the faint sunshine all seem to be felt. The quiet ancient river flows through the beautiful and happy land at a slow pace, and the peaceful years are unbearable to touch.
The so-called painting is nothing more than some people, some cars, some donkeys, some monkeys, some businessmen, some jumping dogs and children-but how simple and harmonious it is.
The sunshine in the Song Dynasty is like a dream, as far as the horizon. Only the wheat green in the Qingming Festival has stained the homesickness of countless painters. To my surprise, this afternoon, which was sad because of the rain, a woman stood in an overseas corner, looking at the silk paintings in the imperial palace, thinking about how many people have shed tears for these paintings in the past 500 years, and how many museums in the palace are showing the peaceful and rich Central Plains.
Walking out of the museum, the green hills in the rain are desolate. Where are the spring trees in Weibei today? Where is the sunset cloud in Jiangdong today? I muttered, gradually walking down the stairs.
Ode to autumn sound
One night, I was preparing for the next day's class under the lamp. After reading only two lines, I felt choked up.
That's Ouyang Xiu's ode to autumn sound. Many years ago, when I was in middle school, I was fascinated by those old books. I recited it secretly!
The funny thing is that teenagers are ignorant. They never know the sadness of autumn sounds. They just want to learn a few beautiful sentences and show them off in their composition books!
But tonight, the rain is knocking from the four windows, and there is a scattered autumn in the small building. Lights are like rain, and sorrow is like rain. They all fall on the ode to autumn, and there are waves between the lines, covering up the familiar words.
Every year 1 1 month, I always buy an Idea magazine, not for those poems, but for Qiu Guang, which is so brilliant in a foreign country. In the desert of Yuan Ye, large tracts of red leaves suitable for cooking wine make people suddenly have the idea of avoiding the world. Unfortunately, the autumn colors in my hometown can still be recognized in the New World at the same latitude, but what about the autumn sounds? Where are these pathetic goods?
What is the sadness of smelling the autumn sound but not smelling the autumn sound?
In the Ming Dynasty, how to explain Autumn Ode when walking through the glittering rain path on campus and facing the eyes of a room full of childlike freshmen?
Qiu Guang is getting dark, the rain keeps falling, and the night is full of unbearable sadness.
Louyuji
Sitting in front of the window of Fu Sinian Library, it is drizzling in all directions.
There is a brothel on the table, which was eaten by octopus. From the burnt title page, I looked down to identify the burnt past of the Yuan Dynasty.
While copying, I can't help but think of the past, just like the surging waves in the river. How many bitter fates are there in those weak names: Zhu, Wang Lianlian, Cui Exiu, Er ... Suddenly, Yuan people's strings and Yuan people's flutes were introduced into their ears. Floating in the music, are those pale faces, sadly smart, standing on the brilliant surface.
When other girls sit quietly on the soft mattress and weave their dreams with colorful silk threads, why do only a group of girls sing the joys and sorrows of the world in the ridicule of everyone? And if fate wants them to be abandoned, why should they be so smart to bear such cruelty?
"Dadu", a brilliant yuan empire, a brilliant dynasty, how can those gloomy faces rise and fall in silence? Of course, they are not the only ones who have fallen to the end of the world, but they are the only ones who look good. But 800 years later, in Nangang, on a rainy day, their life experiences were so heavy on my information card, both ancient and modern.
Rain in the eyes, rain in the ears, rain in Qian Shan. The dusk in Nangang is infinitely bleak in the ancient books full of buildings! Depression is different generations, who can solve this hatred! Nearly a thousand years later, their sadness and humiliation still shocked me so strongly.
It's still raining, and it seems to have been raining helplessly for centuries. The mountains are getting depressed, the trees are getting depressed, and the books are getting depressed. Only the moth marks of mullet stubbornly bite through the bitterness of 800 years.
Oil umbrella
From my friend's hometown, the strings of the rain played far and near, and the path was suddenly attracted by a large piece of clean oil green in the rain. I wanted to go back in the rain all the way, but I couldn't refuse him, so I left under a semi-old oil umbrella.
Walking, walking, twilight, an unspeakable vastness is stretching, and I don't know if it is true or not. Twenty years ago, in the early morning of the mountain city, wasn't this the same road? Isn't it dark On the wandering road, I stood in a beautiful primary school, which I can't forget. It was dark and under an oil umbrella, the little girl walked to school. In order to see a pile of spinach planted by everyone at the back of the classroom, to keep the record of arriving at school the earliest for a week in a row, and to win a poor paper exercise book, she bowed her head in a hurry.
Twenty years later, it's still rain, still mountains, still a semi-old oil umbrella, but her steps can't be hurried. She can't help but think of her hometown's tired sorrow, which is more and more real because of ambiguity.
She finally didn't eat spinach in that season and left; And that exercise book, she still can't get it, because there is always a hateful boy who arrives earlier than her by chance to destroy her upcoming record. She found nothing-and more than twenty years later, she happened to read the landscape written by Liuzhou in the ancient books, and she regretted why those mornings were wasted on useless running. Why doesn't she understand the fate of life? Why doesn't she understand the value of that glance? Why didn't she let the last spring in her hometown leave the most painful and beautiful mark on the net film? But I am absorbed in that worthless exercise book.
After the oil umbrella, there is no childhood. Life on the island is like a mass of scattered noodles, and it is uncomfortable to hold it.
But the island is still an island, and when I accidentally found that the oil umbrella was just a plastic imitation from careful observation, the illusion of dusk slowly disappeared. There are cars and lights, and the rainy season in this city is played in front of vagrants.
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