The dream of drizzle returns to the chicken plug far away, the small building blows through the cold jade pipe. The flying flowers are as light as a dream, the boundless rain is as thin as sorrow. The water dragon sings
Su Shi
It looks like a flower or not, and no one cherishes it. I abandon my home and go to the road, but my thoughts are ruthless and thoughtful. The lingering hurts the soft intestines, the sleepy eyes, want to open or close. The dream travels thousands of miles with the wind, looking for a husband. Wherever I went, I was still called by the orioles.
I don’t hate that the flowers have flown away, I hate that the red flowers in the West Garden are difficult to decorate. The rain has come and gone in the morning, where are the traces? A pond of broken apples. The spring scenery is divided into three parts and two parts. Dust is like a drop of running water. If you look closely, you will see that they are not dots of poplar flowers, but tears of separation.