Blue and green bring out elegance and a wisp of spring wind. So, dyed pink, dyed goose yellow, dyed your mind.
the south, with the thoughts of the north. Some birds come and go, transmitting heart sounds. The words are drunk, one by one.
when you enter life, the flowers bloom for the second time, and the story is flat and graceful. Beautiful or fragrant.
just like me, it is colorless and tasteless, and it is flat and open. Writing your own words has nothing to do with other people's disputes.
Poetry, with a smile, stands at the end of the tree. The branches are lifted, the veins are moving, a huge day, I think.
regenerate a twin of the sun and the moon, and light up every corner of the years until you are as bright as the sun and as soft as the moonlight.
write one book at a time, and the wind will stop and sway, and the tide will come and go. Excited, calm.
The four seasons are like spring, where geese spend the winter. It's far away to plant a dream, which brings you closer to me and unlimited thoughts.
The stars in the noisy and quiet night say something they don't understand. There are ladders built by mountains on earth.
It's urgent to walk, without any reason, just use words instead of hands and feet, and travel in the spring and autumn, year after year.
Hide into the market, pick up the golden morning twilight, how much amber, how much jade, holding the south in hand, blowing flowers and making rain.