1, first met
Apricot was born. strange
When the east wind comes, the peach blossom will pick and burn its brilliance. A colorful butterfly is dancing among the flowers.
The white skirt is fluttering, the red skirt is concentric, and the flower is crazy about butterflies. Vines twine around her daughter's heart. The onion refers to the violin, and a song of missing flows between heaven and earth.
You, wearing a blue suit, come from the depths of the world of mortals, looking for pink between green buildings and purple streets. Where is this beautiful woman? Whose ChanJuan is this? If the eyebrows are far away, the face is like a lotus, and the mountains and rivers are picturesque. Look at each other, your eyes are like water, overflowing with all kinds of tenderness; I looked down, with a touch of shyness, blushed with apricot cheeks and peach faces, and blushed with Jiangnan.
"Under the flowers in the southeast city, you met the right person." You are whispering words that leave fragrance in your lips and teeth, and you are frowning. It is a pool of Chun Qing. Love line is like straw, it is born when you blow it.
The sky is blue, the water is clear and the flowers are fragrant. Gentle as water, love is better than wine, and you are drunk.
The sound of the piano is light, the instruments are clear, and the music is gorgeous.
In the butterfly dance room, can the love between wheatgrass stand the fleeting time?
Step 2 separate
Cold autumn. Yang Liuan.
Shili Causeway, with continuous lights and songs flying with paddles. Not far away, Lanzhou urged.
Cloudy sideburns, beautiful face, a white dress fluttering in the wind. Holding your hand, my eyes filled with tears. Eyes tangled, choked, speechless.
Cover the water every other day, with a green Ruyan Liu in the middle. The curtains are as happy as yesterday. The ghosting is mottled. I remember you brushing your pen with a touch of shyness and stroking my red makeup; I once remembered that the court was filled with the fragrance of words among the colorful notes, and * * * sang Hua Hudie's swan song.
Now the breeze is fading and the moonlight is fading, and the song is a farewell to the flourishing age of Wanli.
In the misty rain, butterflies wet their wings and weak flowers fall.
The parting song played by the teaching workshop and the low throat after the joy of Qinhuai River have become sad freehand brushwork in the broken chapters of dead bamboo slips.
Thousands of miles of smoke, dusk, when you drift away, all your thoughts wander in the boundless romantic moon. Even if it is raining in the south of the Yangtze River, even if there is a fragrance on both sides of the Qinhuai River, even if there are many kinds of customs, who can you tell? Only long and short words are provocative, and the scattered rain beats on the window. Flying flowers are like dreams, and the rain is endless. Sad watches rise and fall on the foggy lake, falling and falling.
At the beginning of the storm. Running water. Acacia moistens the fallen heart.
The faint fragrance and thin shadow of the sea mulberry garden, and the soft hair are gently playing an endless song of nature.
Tonight, when flowers fall and the moon shines, where do you sing the name of the world?
3. Gum Arabic
Red lotus root fragrance. Danju piaoxiang
The butterfly left and the flowers turned muddy red. A reed boat, rippling on the green water and blue waves.
In front of the diamond-shaped mirror, my hands were covered with blue silk, and I couldn't help crying.
Untie Luo Shang gently, go to the blue boat alone and watch the geese fly. Who sent the brocade book?
Accidentally leaning on the railing, the horizon is broken and the water bridge is entangled. Weak water three thousand, Qian Fan empty. The eyebrows are lightly locked and locked into the heart.
A woman with empty eyes and slightly cool fingertips, across the horizon, shows a roll of plain paper, giving it a gap length. Sandalwood Ran Ran is in the furnace, and the thoughts on the plain paper are dense. The geese render it thin and cool, and the cool strings lose beauty. Just frown, but the lovesickness in my heart takes root and grows wildly, tangled in all kinds of plain and graceful sentences. In Wu Gou's view, railings were photographed everywhere, and tall buildings were photographed exhausted. He wanted to say something, but he took a break.
West building. First frost sent Han Xiao, and the clouds covered the waning moon. Looking around, flowers bloom and fall, and flowing water gurgles, adding new worries.
There is no way to get rid of this feeling. Can Lanting have you and penetrate the heart of Sansheng Stone as promised?
4. Dream period
West window. The cool moon. Vines twined around the mottled old wall.
The years are dark, the piano box is dusty, and a deep sadness lingers in my heart, tossing and turning, still lonely.
The clouds are light and the wind is light, and Diane's eyebrows are shallow and ugly. My heart is intertwined with spider silk, and I can't stop cutting it.
Plain sleeves wipe tears, brush ink, book scene after scene of joy, write page after page of parting.
No plan, no plan, "screen lovesickness, it's no use knowing it recently." It is better to throw it away, and you will find each other in your dreams. "
Curtains of dreams, let the wind roll up the curtains. The fragrance of the case is enchanting, the elegant rhyme is silent, the feelings are sent, and the tea is lightly wrapped. Swallows fly on the eaves and whisper softly. I quietly enjoy the flowers with you, cut the western window with you, and set the sun on the blue boat arm in arm, and set an example for Mei Qiqi. Your warm fingers lightly weigh the love like water, decorate the poetic heart sea, and a fish scatters, scatters and splashes affectionately.
……
When I woke up, my dream was gone, the west window was white, the moonlight was cold, and the lilacs were like snow in the courtyard.
Acacia, while continuing to beat the thin white dress. Your shadow looms in tears.
Time flies, acacia walks with dreams.
Do you know that I dare not grow old without you?
I, a static pillow of the world of mortals, wait for you in a poem and a ten-mile red makeup.
A touch of paper and ink, a touch of love for white, and a love for reciting plain and elegant words have euphemistically turned into a thousand-year swan song of different lengths.