The south wind in winter damaged the fence.
The face of the years is shining with wet tears.
The ox cart of time slowly dragged back to the cold cave.
Along the way, the old scene will converge and go back to processing and coloring.
The snowfield is as white as frost, waiting to melt.
Sweet milk will soon moisten the thirst of expectation.
Finally, Xue launched a rebellion as a spy.
The past days are condensed into distant mountains and rivers.
Dense. Wandering, piled up into the thickness of time.
The ferry of memory
The blue boat you left behind painted a never-ending leisurely life.
I leaned on the coin for punting.
Listen to the gaze and whispers of running water.
The jungle of memory can't resist the monsoon of time
The flower I pray for is in the form of epiphyllum.
An acid tide is submerged in my heart.
For you, I use the bright sunshine in my life.
And smiling rosy clouds.
Even the purity and tranquility of Hong Na.
I try my best to weave wings of blessing for you.
When loneliness comes as promised
I held up this lonely coat with a lamp.
Leave my thoughts quietly in the sea of night.
I was drunk when you were in pain.
I put countless poisonous jellyfish in my body.
Let the ocean of the body be like a storm warning.
Panic spasm
There are also stones that wash the sofa with vomiting.
There are also beaches as soft as hotbeds.
Maybe this will isolate the pain from the soul.
Because every bite of jellyfish
That kind of torture is enough to put me in the pain of fear.
Forget the pain from the soul
If physical pain can be freed from mental criminal law.
I really want to burn myself into a fire.
The accumulation of fervent confessions on days like that.
There's no need to miss loneliness silently.
If you say goodbye, you can give up everything.
I would rather let the monsoon of time dismember me in the future.
Let vicissitudes become a frequent visitor to my cheeks.
Make my eyes as cloudy as enough paper on grandma's wooden lattice window.
Let my smile be infiltrated by aging countless times.
Even for future strangers, the bones have shrunk.
But will you wait for me at the end of my life?
Because this is the meeting of souls.
That is a hill in the suburbs.
The autumn wind dyed the maple leaves blood red.
You embrace youth and tender feelings of youth.
I am getting old.
Counting those who dance like fallen leaves
Happiness and joy