"A pool of thick ink in spring is full of persistent years."
Flying in rainy days, flowing through thousands of eaves. A curtain of hazy rain, a bit dense. Turn into a quiet stone road with a dark blue hidden light. The floating rain on the streets, ancient bridges and small towns merged into a turbid current, which merged into a wide sea, mottled with fleeting time.
Bitterness drifted with the wind, thinning the corners of the two towns. Misty inkstone and ink are scattered in the streets and alleys.
Rain and fog dispersed, and the lights in the room were dim. Deep silk sound rang from alley to alley, still falling in the lingering night, oblique meniscus. A blue lamp lit up the beautiful image on the window lattice, smudged a million English poems, quietly recalled between the lines and wrote down the past.
Yesterday, a pool of old ink, half a volume of regular script, such as tide, like a dream. Misty rain is far away, the moon is hazy, and it falls to the ground warmly. Indifference blocks the rotation of the heart and condenses withering and charm. Drop by drop, the strokes were crushed into pieces and floated away with the wind.
Flowers fall, people are scattered, and the pale story is also blowing in the wind. The blurred ink still has a slight imprint and the edge is broken into drops. In the water stain, the residual image is full of stains and spots. Time flies, fragrance fades away, and I am attached to the past. In the indifferent moon and stars, time flies and life is heavy. In a diffuse thin cloud, yellow flowers fell yesterday, with broken branches and dead leaves floating.
On the night of inkstone, the fragrance overflows the lake. A sharp pink lotus whispers to the moonlight, telling the charm of the purple dragonfly. Quiet and harmonious light outside the window, playing with the hanging vines.
The breeze is softer than a dream. The once fragrant flowers are scattered on the pillow mist, and the petals of a season are fluttering on the distant shoulders, with a faint fragrance and a smile.
White walls and black tiles, trickling into sorrow. A thousand mountains and rivers that have fallen to the ground have been swept by the cold wind from the valley, and the dead leaves have broken clouds, but it is only a moment in the past. The looming yesterday left no ink, a bunch of empty vines. On the eternal dock, it adds another oath to the flowing water.
Vows are sometimes nonsense, deceiving others and deceiving yourself, and then continue to edit the next lie. I have to be a vegetarian to weave a lot of helpless, sighing blanks, and even absurd falsehood. Autumn wind blowing leaves may not be the coming of winter, black tile riding on the wall may not be the coming of heavy rain, wind and rain may not be sunny, and a misty rain may not be far away.
A pool of thick ink in spring is full of persistent years. With the heaviness of life, the vicissitudes of life in the world of mortals are re-depicted. Maybe it's romantic love, maybe it's moonlight in Yun Fan. There will always be tears in my eyes, looking forward to safety. There will always be obsession and a dim smile.
Suffering for a while, Jiangnan misty rain. At the ferry of life, pick up the time, fill the bitter wine and enjoy yourself. Whether it is good or bad, it is precipitated by dim light and soft moonlight.