A gust of wind, Adeline, it must be you.
I hate Adeline, with her curly yellow hair and curvy figure. Here you are, a willow leaf by the water, a soldering iron at night. You stand beside me tenderly.
But why are our bodies so cold? Your father is wearing a black evening dress and playing the piano in the house. He was silent and didn't say a word. His face was like paint.
It was dark and steep.
Oh, Adeline, my princess, angelic Adeline, tell this bright moon, will you break through the secular world? Say you won't leave tomorrow. Listen, tonight, just us: the lake, the moon, you and me.
Go ahead, Adeline. Say you like sitting there. I drew it. Say you like to chase a group of white butterflies barefoot. Say you like that open posture, lying on the grass at the bow. Say you only want to listen to this harmonica.
But Adeline, I haven't seen you spin a skirt for a long time? Where did you put those pink leather shoes?
I only often find you staring at the rain drops outside the window and at the swallows on the roof. The swallows are still flying out and back.
Oh, Adeline, I feel it. I feel your heart beating in disorder. You threw a stone into the middle of the lake, but you didn't dare to exhale. Oh, Adeline, you barely looked at me tonight.
Now, there is only one curved moon, swaying in the reflection of the lake.
Finally shattered in front of me.
What time are you coming back?
You are like a birch tree in the snow. No matter what season, you always face people sideways.
You lost your voice for years, but you were always by my side. In fact, you are far from the other side of the river.
Bad years enrich the river and waste the peach blossoms.
I don't want to think of autumn and yellow in a certain year. When the song is over, I will get drunk with an empty cup.
A ship with abdominal pain, dragging and sailing, left a scar on the porthole. Handkerchief, do you want to go with the wind, or do you want to wipe away the tears?
There are endless poems, who has been beating along your veins?
Turn your mood into a acacia bean. Listen, it will be you.
But when will you come back?
A mountain spring is like a match inserted into the body. In catkin season, some corners are covered with dust.
For example, that miss was buried in a pinch of soil last year, as if forgetting to germinate.
A return date of Tanabata. Countless streams are ready to burst their banks, as urgent as summer. Countless eyes opened wide, and they shouted, "She will come back soon, she will come back soon!" " " .
The cold winter is related to the rut marks on the ice, and you may be related to the ship in the distance. In this topic that is not sad, I prayed in the firelight, boiling my expectations. I put a bunch of prunes and put them gently in the fence.
When the messenger rides a horse by honking his horn, whose figure extends in the distance?
The heartbeat crawls in a space, as mysterious as a faint light. In the end, it will bloom in the void like a girl after a bath.
She came back, she came back. His hometown is no longer depressed.
From night to dawn, from you to me, I know: it's just the wind licking its lips.