Every grass, tree, flower and leaf grows and shows their own language. And wind and rain. Every time it blows, every time it rains, I know it's them talking to you and me. Like this feeling, it is like returning to your hometown, an old friend who has known each other for a long time. It said, I'm listening, very serious, very serious ... reading it like poetry has a fleeting time.
I like to stand alone on the stem of the years and watch the fate of that flower. Flowers are fate, and falling flowers are Zen. I see. I don't waste this time, standing in the scenery of a tree, singing softly at every necessary intersection, telling me that I didn't change at the beginning, as true as ever. In the heart of poetry, flowers are unspoken; Clear and peaceful, always read the color of water. Take it off leisurely, enter the eyebrows, plant chrysanthemums in the hedge, and a person, a line of words, fall on the fleeting windowsill!
Living quietly in the past, reading a poem to the bottom of my heart, time twists between my fingers, line by line, sentence by sentence, between the lines, waving the old times I met. I don't know how to arrange it. It's messy and piled up on one side.
In my heart, I am attached to the dream on the covered bridge. I painted the fleeting appearance with a pen and sketched it. I was so close, and then the pen dropped, suddenly blurring my destination ... but I was in a row, distancing myself from time, and my reflection was lost in the flood!
The fleeting wind, the faint, silent and unintentional moon, raises a quiet and beautiful poetic heart every night, blowing gently. Every time I want to meet flowers, I get along with them at first. In the summer sky, there are fewer gloomy raindrops, and the sky is fresh and bright. How I want to gently buckle my heart sound, let it warm up and talk about the wind, think about the beginning, think about it at first sight, it will certainly live up to the glory and Qing Dynasty.
When we bid farewell to the sky in June and step into the threshold of July, we are haunted by everything we once had and have a variety of customs. Tidy up the summer of childhood and recall our past friends and hometown, OK? This season's fleeting wind, can it blow up the fragrant waves, warm the heart and gently pick up the years, set foot on the distant distance of the moon, make a real signature, be located in the most beautiful place, meet fate, and meet flowers.
Poetic heart blowing, fleeting wind, aftertaste at the end of a season, that mountain and valley, that once quietly flowing deep in the water, that is the clear morning light under the window of Xiao Xuan, crystal clear flowers. Full of love, full of joy, stroking in the heart of the poem, sentence after sentence, rubbing into a wisp of pure fragrance heart, let it grow full of green in spring, in the heart of the poem, soft and moist into a clear water, involved in the fleeting time between the eyebrows.
Looking for the aftertaste of memories, in the drifting wind, wrapped in lost skirts, entangled in the dust of the past, all the pages of January. Fortunately, there is something to rely on; The fine print of the period is thoughtful, just like the original appearance, standing at the first intersection, sketching the fate incisively and vividly, dripping on the wall of summer.
The ethereal thoughts to find the memory of a foreign land. In the dream, there was a surge of silence again and again, and the warmth of a poetic heart quietly circled the time of a city, paving the way for the past outside the window!
When I smiled in July, in the fireworks with wings, I sang the plot of the past clearly and echoed, copying the flowers and clothes and the past. Turn the fleeting time into a poem in the light dancing wind, and realize the lack of the moon in the past, and be graceful if it is not beautiful. In a story, how many winds and clouds leave or fall.
In July, the heart of poetry is blowing, and the wind is fleeting. Flowers bloom and the sky is bright, bearing the tenderness of hibiscus flowers. In the pink memory, the scenery that floats by one after another may not be eye-catching or loud enough, but in the warm fragrance of green branches, a season has been planted, and a pure tenderness has been established, waiting for the story of living in time to be rehearsed again.
The branches of summer are full of murmuring love. I want to remember, caress and bind with the lush past, the green sky, the green brow and a crescent moon in the fleeting time.