After the rain, the window was opened and the wind seeped in. Blow a few times on the curtain, and many buds will bloom. Branches and vines are wet, sprouting and spitting leaves, and soon they grow wildly in front of their eyes, as if they still smell of earth and are slightly sweet.
The telephone line hanging on the floor swayed naughtily in the wind, like a happy swinging child. When it falls into the eyes, the semi-circular water droplets in the pane are clear and bitter, like oil beads on the edge of a floating bowl, and will soon cool down. Occasionally, it falls, snapping, waking up the dust on the wall and breaking my heart.
The rain has stopped, the wind is still there, and the sky is muddy into an old yellow photo. All the scenery is diluted in ink, flowing into a long spring, and misty water mist rises like smoke. That wasteland is very rich. And frogs, continuous. Listen carefully, it is clearly a ditty opposite Qianshan, clear, but slightly sad.
At that time: birds, rain, flowers, incense.
When I stepped into the forest, the birds sang in my ears, crisp and clear, as if the wind chimes hanging on the branches fell. The short jump between distances is not only a gesture, but also a parabola that extends after the noise and silence, opening up barriers of different shades. The warm spring was gently stirred by the wind. Worry emerged straight from the sun, with a faint red color in shyness. At that time, we laughed and laughed seriously.
It's raining. If it's silk, it's cold. Something soft, began to wander. The rain floating among the leaves, gently touched, slipped down, without sound, but with a sense of drama. In retrospect, some interesting things in childhood began to have a long aftertaste. The colors that are unwilling in my heart are simply jingling. Spring is humid, and the young mind is growing. Some swaying branches let a new green spread endlessly. There are birds in the distance, passing through the shade. And you and I are still hand in hand, walking on the hazy canvas of the spring rain.
Flowers, now in the rain, bloom quietly. Sweet fragrance, quietly floating. The slowly flowing shadows in the wind are gently accompanied by poems. A leaf boat stopped on a rainy night. Enjoy a trip together, and several flowers bloom in the fog. Like a lotus in a cloud, it seems sad. Perhaps, everyone has that clear water in their hearts, but time goes by inch by inch, and that feeling can only be treasured one by one.
For many years, I hid the fragrance, and the orchids on the windowsill began to feel lonely.
Those flowers are aging in groups. Along the way, moss grew thick. You're laughing, you're in a deep spring, and you're drunk. And I, in the evening light after the rain, drink quietly alone.
Outside of time, in the flower season, in a word, sadness. For a long time, the only wooden fence was washed out by the years. Things are different, either sad or happy. As early as in the vicissitudes of life, I was tired and quiet, speechless and without it.