What is the story of Cinnamomum camphora and Cinnamomum camphora? Someone was whispering in the cracks looking up and looking down.
So everything becomes very subtle. Warm eyes and wet palms.
In those summer when the sky is in full bloom, the sunshine has the most prosperous jointing.
She ran past him in a hurry, so the floating grass blossomed;
He waited quietly behind her, so the sunset closed the heavy door;
He and he became more and more silent in the four seasons, the past dusk and the morning that didn't come.
In summer, she and she walk more and more slowly, and the pulled hand holds the hand that has not been pulled.
Some melodies have never been sung, and some torches have never been lit.
But there is sound and light in this world.
So time became heavy and small, and the snowstorm easily broke the thin door.
That city has never aged, it stands in memory and becomes the loneliness and loneliness left by no one at school in the evening.
Camphor trees cover all the sky in the city from beginning to end.
There is a confession ten years late in the shadow.
Oh, I am singing. Did you hear that?
Ah ah, who is singing? I heard you.
1996 summer solstice. Color. Polaris
When the tide rushes to the ancient river bank, summer connects with the next summer,
What do you like?
Heavy rain swept through the village in the hot sun, and the next summer was flooded.
What do you like?
Skip the green spring, the sad autumn honeysuckle and the greener summer next year.
You appeared in front of me again. Eyebrows droop. Turn around and take away the rain from the whole city,
Then turn around and bring back the colorful snow. The thunder of wheat jointing rumbled through the earth.
You splashed ink on the broken words in the corner, so you rendered a summer without ups and downs.
Come next year. Next year. But I haven't waited for a crying summer solstice. A summer solstice that never comes all year round.
Avoid round-trip search.
He has never seen her.
She has never seen him.
No one has seen it. Never been here in summer solstice. The world began to rain cats and dogs. The flood season is coming.
1997 summer solstice. Meet. Swllowtail Butterfly
If we hadn't met ten years ago. Whether we will never meet again.
Those foggy and noisy years in every corner of the city.
The reeds germinate in turn and then die gradually.
The wings hastily covered the sky. There is nothing more to say.
Cast the shadow of the tide along the road.
Black hair dyed white. The snow was dyed black.
Dyed black during the day. The night was dyed white.
The world is upside down, left and right, up and down, black and white.
So I became your reflection.
Always live in a completely different world from you.
Buried the twilight of the morning.
Buried a group of gorgeous swallowtail butterflies.
You are my dream.
1998 summer solstice. Warm fog. Damaged array
Time turns into a red morning mist, and day and night are gradually divided equally.
I started my lonely years in a world you have long forgotten, with my eyes closed and my ears covered.
Cheering with tears,
Not seeing you means not seeing the whole world.
Darkness engulfed tens of billions of planets like the tide. Sunflowers are dying on a large scale. Migratory birds were sent to the funeral in droves.
One by one, there is no heavy voyage in sight.
Who waved with a straight face and then isolated from the world.
What is silent is your disappointment. And your pale side face.
In fact, the world will never wake up. It sleeps quietly under the collar of your shirt.
In the blink of an eye. The beard instantly pierces the skin of the lips. Youth holds high the banner of hunting the wind.
So you grew up and became the crowned king.
But I am at a loss to think that you are still a pale little prince.
They say that as long as there is a little prince in the world, there will always be foxes waiting for love.
When the swallows come back with green in their hands in the coming year,
Do you still bow your head under the camphor tree like a seventeen-year-old summer?
And then come to see me,
In that long, psychedelic, endless summer.
1998 summer solstice. A sunny day.
The world shines when it breaks out,
Shining once faint youth and years apart from each other.
Iris gradually climbed up all the hillsides and watched the arrival of Black Poetry.
Those poems that are circulated sing legends, and those who sing legends in legends,
Those people have nurtured countless journeys in countless eyes.
Mixed with youth and happy past, unknown origin, unknown origin,
Only when the years return along the road do wizards paint with bright gold paint and silver powder.
So the once dumb years gave birth to whistling arrows in the forest.
The once gloomy clothes instantly glow with crescent-like white light,
You were young, you were handsome, you were silent, you were kind, and after many years, you returned to pure white at the age of seventeen.
Once lonely, become no longer lonely.
This world is a happy playground in your hands, and no one can close it except you.
So the sky is gorgeous and reeds linger,
You appear at the fork in the road, with Zhang Mingliang's face and white hair.
Like the summer when the solstice was lost many years ago.
1998 summer solstice. Floating clouds. Phoenix flower.
Those flowers recorded by clouds,
Those clouds decorated with flowers,
In this endless long summer, it has become a dry season in the wilderness.
Zebras and antelopes migrate between groups of sand dunes,
The silent floating grass that jointing on the water every year,
All the lives that left were marked with bright red by the last season's Phoenix Flower.
Ten years later, we met in the vast sea of people.
Who said that, the people who left, the things left behind,
Come back one day,
Go the way you used to go,
Sing the songs I used to sing,
Love the person you once loved,
But I can't bear to hate anymore.
Those legends travel around the world, dressed in sunset clouds like the proudest heroes.
The dark god who leads people through tragedy,
Died on the dry river bed before the next rainy season.
Reed burned to ashes and spread to the blue sky.
Summer solstice in 2002. Be submerged. Yamato-e
The plane broken by time is folded into eternity by the crust.
The boots left by the poets in the mountains were soaked with dew in the sunset.
The years that come and go reveal unprinted chapters.
Repeatedly reluctant to leave in the morning light, and a bright future.
The lying body blooms in all seasons, and the body grows skin and melts into the mountains and rivers.
The road you walked many years ago is now full of sad lakes.
The plateau you climbed many years ago is now sleeping deep in the earth's crust.
The stories of those times were all folded into one chapter.
Time flies and summer is over.
People who plant flowers become people who look at flowers, and people who look at flowers become people who bury flowers.
And that wasteland has become an oasis, which makes me unable to rejoice.
Only your sadness or happiness can make the air sound like rain playing the keys.
In the dark valley, re-polish the flashing lights.
Those quiet secret jungles have been covered with layers of fallen leaves for thousands of years.
Pearls flowing under fallen leaves.
It was your blindness many years ago.
Summer solstice in 2002. Liu Lan. sakura festival
Those hurried summers disrupted the migration of birds.
The world is dark for a moment, and then everywhere for a moment.
The faceless god in the sky sang an elegy arm in arm.
Thunder deep in the clouds threw the fire all over the sky.
Only the original shepherd boy is left, still standing quietly in the depths of the forest.
Still standing on the hill playing the flute, blowing the dusk long.
We cry or laugh, get up or sit, and it is bright or dark in the middle of the night.
Those silk threads of fate emit cold white light.
No matter how far you look, you can't see the end of the silk thread Who is the poor puppet?
And you, with bright spring scenery,
Scatter a thousand summers at will,
A thousand flowers,
A thousand lakes,
A thousand reed marshes sing songs of forgiveness,
Then, then the world was calm again.
Flowers and plants repeat the cycle of the four seasons,
The sun began to rise and set periodically again.
Nobody remembers,
Who is the priest,
Who is the singer who sings this poem?
Summer solstice in 2003. Vortex. The Last Light
Those discrete years,
Come back to me.
Those dark twilight years,
Wrapped around my heart.
The past that has passed away is harvested again in the wheat field.
Anger at the sun, resentment at jointing,
Also thrive.
The unknown hatred, the vague love,
Everyone woke up this summer, which was postponed but finally arrived.
The sky is gone, and the clouds are moving silently, bringing the news of the return of the monsoon.
Who kissed his face silently many years ago?
Those lanterns blown by the wind and yellow white paper can't stick the light needed in the dark.
Who can lend me a pair of sharp eyes,
Light up the dark and long road ahead.
Who can lend me wings,
Who can take me soaring?
Summer solstice in 2005. end
What we thought happened never happened.
Those whom we think love will always love us.
Well, I hope it helps you.