Meeting, missing each other, the fragrance of the past life, thousands of years of intricacies;
The bright moon, the chanting moon, the water-melody song head, moistening the vicissitudes of life.
Inscription
Whose wind and sand did you tie up in the light veil? Whose heart is stirred by the slightest lift of your skirt?
A prosperous dream, with a graceful silhouette like a giant, for whom has it waited for five hundred years?
A scorching gaze, looking back through five hundred years, passing through thousands of reincarnations, but met in the wrong way. You were in the mist and rain, and I was outside the mist and rain. They opened and fell, fell and fell again. bloom;
I sat in front of the Buddha for five hundred years, just waiting for a meeting in the prosperous age, but missed the most beautiful period of flower blooming,
The misty Jiangnan, Jiangnan Misty rain, why do you always miss the time when you are in touch with each other, and your eyes are wet and red;
The dark fragrance floats, and the sparse shadows are slanted. Whose western window candle did you cut? The paper window has been thinned, the peach blossoms have fallen and are looking for fragrance, and the remaining light is red makeup.
Whose autumn pond is flooded by the night rain in Jiangnan? The red smoke of Jiangnan supports whose obsession, lingering sadness? The melodious heartbeat, the sound of nature. Whose journey will be detoured into a deep-seated sorrow?
The encounter in the broken bridge, I walked from the depths of the dust, the moment when the moonlight intersected, the bustling bustle suddenly receded behind me; your tenderness, the clear water, the rippling blue waves, moved me Thousands of years of heart embankment; looking back with a smile, plain color fleeting, your alluring face will never grow old in my colorful colors.
The ink marks are gone, the words are thin, the lovesickness is falling, and the yellow flowers are thin; that touch of autumn red leaves me with endless lingering and memories
On the other side of the snowy shore, you, the veil Dancing, the lotus steps move lightly, walking through the thousand-year-old umbrella shadows of Qinhuai; I become a butterfly in the green lanterns and yellow scrolls, passing through your blue sky and white clouds, passing through your fresh and beautiful lotus pond, fluttering my wings Youmeng;
The broken lamp shadow, the wet dimness, is the light sorrow you hide behind the firewood, rice, oil and salt, like a river of spring water. I am in the blue and white of your thousand-year-old porcelain inkstone, blooming and falling by the vast river. It's quiet when you come, and it's quiet when you go. The words about the warmth of spring and the blooming flowers have been brushed away by the frost marks in the passing years, drowning the coldness of poems and songs, and warming the heart of the pillow.
Those tiny pieces of radiant beauty carry your heart and stir up my heart; go back to the shore and look for the clear spring on the road. I don’t know who’s ivy has wrapped around your door, who’s colorful butterfly has stopped in your heart, your hand is raised and dropped, and dropped and raised again. The misty prayer wheel carries the lingering sound of the breeze.
There is a faint mist, and the green smoke curls up on the other side. The wind and sand of memory blew my slightly cold eyes.
I hold a cup of the gentleness of your smile, which is quiet and deep, refreshing and lofty; whose city will be empty with your words in the afterlife? Whose celadon is empty? Autumn comes at the time when lovesickness comes, and the red paper that has not yet been sent away is mixed in the wind that turns warm and cold at first, letting the autumn rain do whatever it takes to be cold;
That touch of separation from the world, promises Who is the soft fragrance of the next life, silently feeling the sadness of parting and parting when we meet and get to know each other in a touch of lovesickness? The lingering red in the depths of the heart has no choice but to be shallow. Let go of the dense ties in the lingering world and look at the belated encounter with a smile. Maybe no matter how noisy it is, it can't take away some of the fragrance singing on the window of the heart. .
Perhaps, the encounter was originally a piece of frostbite prose, sad and lingering, hazy and beautiful;
Perhaps, holding thousands of red flowers in hand, only the lost one is the most beautiful, maybe, the body is the most beautiful. Among the thousands of loved ones, only the one with a hundred feet of black ice is the most beautiful;
I have been obsessed with thousands of thoughts throughout my life, and there is no turning back in this world; people are as before, the night is still young, the plain paper is spread lightly, and the pen is full of emotion , the neon clothes and feathers are wrapped in the sea of ??snow, the longing, the pure lovesickness, the sad fragrance of the heart;
If the encounter is a color, then the encounter between you and me is the faint golden color, with Bearing the vicissitudes of things and people, blooming faintly in the prayer tube of reincarnation, ferrying in the world of mortals, silent and gloomy;
The wind and the drizzle; the green lamp and the lingering fragrance; the wind and rain along the way have made me wet, and I have to stop talking. of melancholy. Memories that have nowhere to be placed, in the depths of the glitz, are buried in the hustle and bustle of the prosperous times, and the clear and shallow footprints are covered with overlapping dreams, lingering moistly on the pillow every night.
After a night of clouds and rain, I have no one to worry about. The bone-gnawing fragrance, with a bit of tragedy in the fragrance, a bit of beauty in the dancing, is lightly embedded in my deep heart.
When you left, love finally became hurt. The desolate music and sadness penetrated the clear smile on the Sansheng Stone. Although it was still bright, it no longer had the burning heat that made people tired; although it still had warmth. As expected, one of the missing ribs has melted.
The past is confusing, the old dreams of squandering flowers are becoming more and more lustful, and the oath has slipped on the wall of the heart. On the ferry boat in the world of mortals, whose white gauze dress is nostalgic for me, and my heart is fluttering? Ethereal clear song. Whose call is it? The gaze that cut through the floating dust, and the moment the memory fell, turned out to be nothing more than a wisp of sadness in the dust.
At the end of the dream, there are past and present lives that are difficult to understand and understand. The water in West Lake is cold and has been cold for thousands of years. In the fleeting time that is approaching day by day, the encounters in the past are deserted.
Spring has come and gone. The flowers fall and bloom again. Whose door did your sedan chair fall on? When you walked by helplessly, and the petals were withered on the ground behind you, did you know that they were my broken heart.
Sparse shadows on the paper window, light ink, green shirt; red dust ferry, waiting for the spring to bloom