It’s raining, and a drop of nostalgia ignites the shyness all over the mountain. The thoughts that grow wildly grow from small to large as they bloom and scatter leaves, and the layers of buds are rushing to stretch out. A series of raindrops fell down, and the irregular picture was stuck in a blur. It flowed down along the curve of the tear ducts, and a drop of water could be seen in the depths. With the beating of his heart, he rolled through those corridors. Carrying the scattered waves, it is difficult to choose which splash to use in the panic. A water splash is a reflection, a wave is a throbbing.
The distant gaze cuts across the outline of the raindrops, and a mulberry leaf holds the corner of the eye. The green scepter supports the mirror images, each one is full of jade, and each branch is crystal clear. Go around the leaf line and turn around those tender baby lines.
A few calls from the traveler tore through the inner sense of touch. Shouting out a familiar chant, the sound turned into raindrops hitting the rocks on the roadside. Those notes penetrated the ears crisply, vibrating the eardrums in the brain like wind chimes.
So the swarming thoughts gathered into a river along the rainy mountain road, lifting up the lying yellow sand in the turbidity. Running in the wilderness, his huge body roared, his arteries became turbid and it was difficult to stop.
Maybe washing is the patent of rainwater, and enjoyment is the right of all things. The falling rain washes away Anran, but Anran is preparing for Nirvana and rebirth. Say goodbye to the bare and cold winter, and let the fire reignite in the youth zone.
Close your eyes quickly and feel the fragrance of blooming flowers. A swarm of buzzing bees is coming from a distance, carrying honey-gathering tools. The scent of those flowers tests the sensitivity of the sense of smell, and you may be able to distinguish when the feeling is conveyed to your mind. Which one is an apricot blossom, which one is a peach blossom. When the wind blows, those floating petals will escape into the turbid Yellow River. Perhaps after completing the interpretation of Nirvana, you will retreat into deep silence. Perhaps resting in the deep river bed is its best destination. Open up happily and leave happily. Because there is fruit, there is inheritance. The immortal horn has been passed down, playing the rhythm of winter and spring plowing.
Just like when the rain comes, it first becomes dark like wind and clouds, and then thunder and lightning travel across the sky. The silkworm moth seemed to be breaking out of its cocoon, struggling against the darkness. The only flame burning like a phoenix, the gap leading to the rainbow is also the key to rebirth. Look at those thunder and lightning twisting their bodies, holding on tightly to the thread while the rain is busy washing the world. It reminds me of people who climb mountains. Every step they take becomes more difficult and dangerous. Every step back takes your dream back a few years. The raindrops all over the sky slid down the muddy mountain road, and the water droplets on the ground intertwined into streams and expanded the loess.
An old sigh made many wanderers unable to bear to stop running. The long sigh, sometimes it is still there in dreams, sometimes it is hanging in front of the rain curtain in front of the door when it is rainy. At that time, I would always see that air flow, drawing deep ravines on the face that was gradually drying up. How many times could I not help but want to snatch that sharp knife, but every time I was accompanied by the sound of the wind in the early morning. The helpless heart is unstoppable, just like the unstoppable raindrops. When it flows into the tear duct, it bounces out from the other side, like a naughty child who doesn't listen to dissuasion. The residual warmth flowing down my cheeks actually imitated the rain and fell between the sand and stones in front of me. Different raindrops have different missions. Some raindrops are transparent when they fall on rocks, and some raindrops are turbid when they fall on the soil. The water droplets flowing down from the cheeks were hot, perhaps because they had settled in the heart. It seemed so heavy, and there was a "dong-dong" sound when it was knocked on the stone surface. I remembered the Dharma drum in front of the Buddha and heard the deep Sanskrit sounds. Ripples were stirred up the moment the water beads touched the stone surface, and electric drum sounds passed through the consciousness. Crossing the blurry rain curtain, wading through the turbid river. Penetrating the leaves supported by the green stick, running through the rugged mountain road. There are also the cries in the dream, and the backbone of the rainbow when I wake up in the morning...
In my lips and teeth, I swallowed the scene of the lotus blooming, and poured a drop of water into its roots in my mind. Will the touch of clasped palms shake the knife off? Because I can no longer let go, I have gradually exposed myself. The black ravine is deep enough, like an old tree. The skin color has gradually dried out among the mottled spots, and circles of wrinkles firmly entwine the growth rings in the heart. It's like a long rope, getting tighter and tighter, and becoming more and more coiled. I couldn't help but raise my head, wanting to use my left eye to collect these falling raindrops, and after an inner transformation, they flowed out of my right eye. Just let those hot water drops water the roots of the lotus, and then wrap the knife inside. Put away that sharp edge and fill in those deep ravines! That might save a lot of sighs, and maybe it would leave an unforgettable picture...
The sequence emits a world in particles, and the tiny pupils can feel it. A wisp of light gently crossed the gloomy sky. Is it a sketch or a play review, a stage of rebirth and decline. The epitome of affection hangs, and scenes of sorrow and joy are connected together with sighs. Like rain, pattering. The moment they hit the gravel, Sanskrit is flowing in the ears and eyes, or there is an absent lotus disk. Because the raindrops all over the sky are warm and moist. Maybe when the weather is fine, the ribbon will stop the airflow in the desert. What is etched deep into my heart is not only the ravines I grew up with, but also the gray on my temples. The thick tree in front of me has its arms raised high, and its original skin color has been oxidized by the sleepy years. The raindrops took the opportunity to corrode the scars. But it still hasn't changed its original heart, and it still stands there to protect it from wind and rain. I watched everything from a distance, everything that had passed and everything that had yet to come.
But that stream of air has become a shadow in a dream.
It's a sharp knife, very quickly...