The spring scenery is full of color, turning my green smoke straight up prose
During the Qingming Festival, in the middle of March, the peach is red and the pear is white, the toon buds and catkins are fragrant, the osmanthus is fragrant, the ginkgo has new stamens, and the dewdrops are climbing up The tips of grape vines, the branches of loquats with playful young fruits, the newness of persimmons, and the evergreen citrus. How could the spring scenery in the courtyard withstand the loneliness of the sun? The graceful woman looked up at the kite, and the drunkenness of the fresh green pierced her eyes.
The jumping steps touched the crispy mud, and the shallow velvet hair cooled the skin. The caress of the years took off the long winter clothes, and walked alone in the monsoon, letting go of the hazy hair. The misty rain blurred my eyes, but I still persisted in the willow embankment on the vast river bank, encountering the poetry of a piece of Jiangnan oil paper.
The pearls fall into the world and are brilliant. The lonely ethereal spirit expresses the ties of a lifetime. The bright world will finally find a companion. The vast light is charming to the eyes. Missed opportunities are always opportunities. Why not sigh? The red flowers of spring are gone, drifting alone into the sea.
The light of the sea is boundless, and the faint dust is inconspicuous. It always travels in front of and behind people, submerged in the torrent, and it can’t reach the end. People are looking forward to looking back. There is no high place to stop and the current is low, drifting with the current. Must go eventually.
The fish swims in the clear water and looks at the shadow in the sky. I imagine that I can always follow my thoughts and swim, but I only admire the fish in the abyss. I don’t know that the wings of the fish’s desire are soaring in the blue sky, facing the swimming fish in the sky. Looking at the figure, I feel pity for myself.
The bird is lying on the flowing clouds in the sky. I feel sad all the time. There is always an inexplicable worry. I don’t know which day the clouds will disappear. The gloomy clouds are bleak. I lie down and look at the wishes of heaven. How can we control the warmth and coldness of human relationships in the world, whether we get together or not.
In the midst of the hustle and bustle, my thoughts wander back to my hometown, where the grass grows and orioles fly, and the imaginary appearance of spring. It had been a long time since I had been able to open my eyes, and I couldn't even see people's faces clearly. The scenery was the same but with new makeup.
The freshly turned soil exudes the fragrance of hometown, and the spring bamboo shoots that have just emerged from the ground are still the smell of hometown. Crops are symbols of profound souls. The greetings of the wind ring in the ears, and the waving trees are floating in the air. The aroma of tea from a loved one. The blooming flowers on the unfamiliar streets, the grass moving about to emerge, and the warm sunshine are all in your heart.
Spring comes again, and the seasonal flowers bloom. Looking out the window, the rapeseed flowers are blooming all over the ground, driving away a little bit of the cold air. Perhaps the industrious bees and butterflies crowd the sun and look dappled. The sun is smiling, the earth is dressed in green, and the light yellow skirt is swaying with flowers, which attracts the favor of the flower-picking girl from time to time. With a smile, if you bloom, I will come.
The flags are stretched out, the breeze is harmonious, and the wetness of the monsoon is slowly swaying. In the haze, the swallows tilted, and the fluttering catkins sprouted green buds. I was filled with the clear stream of water that was getting warmer, as if the warming air had warmed my skin.
The day lilies in bud are standing in rows with neat heads, as if they want to illuminate the whole earth golden before giving up. Who says spring flowers are not as bright as autumn flowers? How can the growth of spring be compared to the coolness of autumn?
After walking for a long time, we always meet in the middle of the familiar road, embracing each other with broad arms. Our aging bones no longer have strength, but they serve as a bridge of friendship. .
There are a few new mounds at the end of the wheat field, with barnyardgrass standing on them, hands clasped together, bowing the head devoutly, drinking in the memory of old friends and recounting their nostalgia. It is worthy of the passage of time, and the deep appreciation of my hometown returns to my soul, caressing me and looking at it peacefully. Autumn falls and spring comes.
Fresh green sends away the widow, green pines smell the mountains and forests, and wild flowers grow everywhere. The floating turbid water is clear, the water caltrops are floating along with the lotuses, and the duckweeds are green on the red background, just like a newlywed revisiting her mother's family.
The mountain flowers are as red as fire, the azaleas have fallen to moisten the soil, and there is no need to pity the bones when burying the flowers.
Reunion after a long separation, holding hands tightly and talking, time flies, wrinkled face, it is a poetic floating. Smile is the most beautiful flower. When you bloom, I will come.
The thick native soil has sown the seeds of my affection and absorbed the nutrients. I will turn it into ashes to compensate for the unrequited soul and wait for the person you have been waiting for all your life.
I will bloom into a beautiful sunflower, spit out all the fragrance in your direction, attract butterflies to visit, and kiss my cheeks.
Hometown, hometown, love my arms deeply, I crash deeply into your chest.
The injected blood melted the heart that had gone through thousands of twists and turns, and turned into a wisp of smoke, drifting into the distance.