In March, fluttering the tender wings of spring, flying over the mountains, the mountains quietly put on green clothes; Flying over the Yangtze River, the spring breeze is green in Jiang Nanan. In March, I used a pair of exquisite scissors to cut open the glacier, cut open the thick iron clothes of the soil, cut open the new buds of willows by the river, and cut open the pink lips of Xinger Taoer. Love is in March, love is in March. Let me sing a March for the woman who writes poetry.
I still don't know who those sentimental love songs are for, and I still don't know who wrote the love of the whole city. I think I am an ordinary woman and should spend my life calmly and flatly. However, the words inserted a pair of angel wings for me. I cherish and love life, and I am willing to sing with words. If March is a poem, what a beautiful and touching song it is to understate the woman in March. Stepping on the soft soil in March, flying in the March wind suffocated a winter's hopes and dreams, making a beautiful wish like a flower and growing sturdily with the season. ...
If March is a woman, then she should be hazy, light, elegant, smart and free and easy. Break free from bondage, all the charm and customs belonging to this season. Flowers bloom, and all the wheat straw and colorful March belonging to this season are an affectionate woman and a girl who falls in love with spring. Look at the willow bank by the river, which is light green, as if there is nothing; Look at the distant mountains, like a girl's eyebrows, shy and happy; Look at the peach blossoms in Shan Ye. They are both moist and beautiful. Look at the smoke on the roof, Ming Che is shallow; Look at the Marti flowers in the shallow grassland, surrounded by bees and butterflies. In this emotional season, I saw so many shallow women, whose fingers brushed romance, appealed to the deepest tenderness and wrote a series of beautiful poems. I don't know whether March belongs to the woman who writes poetry or the woman who writes poetry belongs to March. March is foggy and rainy, leaving many poetic mornings and poetic evenings for amorous women.
Maybe a woman's poem is not in her eyes but in her heart. Those women who have felt Hui Lanxin countless times may not have the appearance of this beautiful city, but a corner of their hearts is always clear, with the touch, persistence and enthusiasm of life, which is enough to make poetic women charming, lovely and smart, and make people envy and hate. You can only appreciate such a woman from a distance, just like enjoying a beautiful scenery. Because such a woman is a landscape, every gesture, every movement, every frown and every smile is a picture. Quiet and beautiful, passionate and persistent, smiling and surging.
Whenever the morning comes, such a woman may open the pink or lavender screen window and say good morning to the rising sun in Ran Ran. Perhaps I will quietly look at my own shadow and whisper narcissistically: "It is always appropriate to compare the West Lake with heavy makeup." ; Maybe dress up in front of the mirror, suddenly turn around, dance, and make faces in front of the mirror. "Compare, who is more beautiful than who." Then the mirror replied, "Her Majesty, of course!" Then, I trotted downstairs to work, and then ran back, because I forgot my wallet, keys and gloves. ...
Whenever night comes, such a woman will pull down the curtains. Drink a cup of scented tea or coffee alone. Drink slowly. At this time, they may not just drink a cup of tea or coffee, but they are full of poetry ... When they study a cup of green tea in their hands, they carefully play with not only the blue-and-white porcelain tea set, but also the tea fragrance floating in the wind, dreamlike yearning, and all vicissitudes, struggles, pursuits, rises and hesitations will rise. All the fetters, all the fetters, all the dreams, all the hopes were salvaged on this night, together with the roots. When inspiration flashed through her mind, she would tap the keyboard and record her mental journey. Maybe her thoughts will stay for a while, so she will approach the windowsill, open the curtains, look for the bright moonlight, and look for the beach deep in the moonlight, where thousands of piles of snow are surging.
I think those poetic women are full of confidence everywhere. Such a woman will secretly have a dream in the afternoon. In this dream, there will be a charming prince in plain clothes. In this dream, everything is blue or purple, maybe pink, and there will be a romantic and beautiful love here. Such a dream will always be the dream of a poetic woman. Not because the world lacks love, but because the world lacks beautiful love. Such a woman would rather not marry all her life, because she can't find anyone who understands her, loves her or loves her. It must be the nature of a poetic woman. A poetic woman is a wonderful flower, pure and pure, looking for and expecting. ...
I don't think I've ever been a woman walking in Tang poetry and Song poetry. I never wanted to grow up and die alone like those women in Tang poetry and Song poetry. In the fleeting time of plain colors, I would like to walk with colorful dreams and smiles, measure my path with my feet, and write my love with pen and ink in my hand. I am not a poet or a singer. Today, I'm going to write an ode and sing a eulogy for those women who write poems with my poor pen container. Woman who writes poetry, I want to give you a song-drunken flowers. Let love move in March. Woman who writes poems, may you always be as happy as the sunshine and drizzle in March. ...