Why can a writer of snow scene in West Lake write such beautiful prose?

Leaning against the window,

Look everywhere, there must be mountains.

Blurred dark green shadows,

This is the color of spring.

The flowing mist rises around,

Didn't show his true colors

Facing the flowing mist,

I would fantasize,

There is heaven there.

On a summer night,

I will quietly, quietly,

Waiting for the meteor shower to come ...

Make a wish,

Don't beg it,

At least, once, for a moment,

My green, young, poetic heart,

In my best years,

Had a soul exchange with the starry sky …

In autumn,

The sun is not dazzling,

The sky is as blue as washing,

Dotted with flowing clouds.

Occasionally,

A flying leaf,

Will float to my window.

In the mottled imprint,

It is engraved with the color of late autumn.

On a snowy morning,

This whirlpool of snow,

As white as a thousand years ago.

Outside the window,

This is an unpolluted silvery white world.

I'll see you,

The sanctity of this world.

In these years of circulation,

Four seasons cycle,

And a flowing heart,

An eternal heart.