In February, I walked leisurely from a cherry blossom bush.
The wind beat against the earth, like a mother waking up a child who should go to school.
Began to wander in February. Green mountains, clear rivers and faint clouds are my most beautiful intentions along the way.
In February, I was swallowed like a bucket of instant noodles on the green leather train, fermenting the beginning of a poem, which originally originated from the philosophical thinking of "Tao gives birth to one, two, two, three and three".
Every word will give birth to the order of words and cards in the Song Dynasty.
When the train got out of the tunnel, it was sunny, and it suddenly occurred to me that my sister in the mountains was old enough to get married.
Year, month and day
When I keep a diary: one day in a certain year.
The wind began to sweep through the dark night, the stars hid in the clouds, the nightingale stopped singing, but the owl made a few scary calls. The trees were swaying and panting. The geese that flew out at dusk didn't come back or moan.
I waited for Yanzi to return, and the moon came. I cast a ray of light and cooled my fiery poem.
Maybe that wild goose will never enter my diary again and never come back.
What an interesting irony!
Dusk wheat
The rosy clouds are fluttering, and the sunset glow is blushing like a flame without temperature.
The wheat waves rolled, and Haizi stood barefoot in the wheat field, trying to unlock the secret of the spirit by salvaging a grain of wheat. Wheat exudes the fragrance of breast milk, which permeates the earth. Look at the old farmer's wrinkled face, and you will know that Haizi's lyricism has nothing to do with him. He only cares about the wheat harvest.
Sparrows flew in and stole the wheat. The old farmer smiled innocently and stopped chasing.
Twittering is a song returned by sparrows and a gift.
bird
In front of the old street blacksmith's shop, the low street trees lost their vitality and became ill.
That morning, I woke up drunk and walked in the dark.
In the early morning, several crisp sounds attracted me.
Stop. Wait and see. There is a bird with beautiful wings in a beautifully made cage.
The birds jumped up and down, pecking at the wire with their mouths, and the crisp voice was deep with vicissitudes of life. I want to change Tao Qian's poem: "If you live in a cage for a long time, when will you return to nature?"
Isn't fate and time just a beautifully made cage?
Birds can't escape from the cage, and neither can I escape from the cage of reality.