Days are counted page by page, and time passes by minute by minute. The sun is awakened by a high temperature called summer. Get up early, climb on the windowsill, covered by moss marks in the wind last night. The light rain that came and went soaked the dragonfly's wings at once, but never wet the sentimental poem. Sitting in a small room facing south, the wind is as tight as a gust, and the child next door knocks on a sleeping door with the child's voice.
Sitting in front of the window on a hot summer day, watching the sun getting closer and closer, the shadow is getting shorter and shorter, perhaps shrinking into a point, shrinking into a round red mole in human life, or even getting nothing. The shadow is you or me, and I don't forget every minute. Is a flower also blooming in your hands, slowly unfolding its delicate beauty, and then slowly fading in the scorching sun, so that the swan song of the flower faces the sea, and the surging wings around it blow the green branches and leaves that I have been attached to all my life, warming my journey day by day.
In July, the calendar was ruthlessly opened by the wind. In July, acacia is nowhere to be found. Not only that face, but also that person, gradually blurred. Add a little more water to the cup and put all the books in the drawer, but I can't put my thoughts in the bag. On some dark nights, there are faded fragments floating in my heart, and there is a slow mist behind my smile, singing silently: I understand that when you come back, there is no proof that the fragrant memories will be covered with moss forever. It's spring, the train is far away and the summer is long. I have been tempered into an iron body, counting the stars and pretending that everything is back to yesterday.
I always thought life would be like this. I always thought that the floating white window lattice revealed only plain singing. Unexpectedly, there will be such an encounter. Clear eyes, sad words, dim background, everything will become beautiful and magnificent because of that moment. Seven colors of light are projected on the outstretched hand, slender and soft, and blue flowers bloom with the clouds at the fingertips. Oh, time is waiting for me, waiting for me in rainy days, and I'm still waiting for you to pop up the sound of mountains and rivers in my mind.
Miss, get, wait, lose, unhappy, unhappy, and at the last moment, it will eventually become empty. Will leave in July. My hands are covered with dust. The petals fall all over the path in July, and the rain in July is sprayed wantonly. The streets in July are very cold. Walking from street to street, there was no one. I can't find a mask for the demonstration. I am destined to stand on your branch in a simple way. Pedestrians left without makeup. I will become another kind of lotus with clear soup and dried noodles. Who will stop and who will get hurt?
In July, I lost Chun Qing for a season because of your departure. When these flowers are blown by the wind, they bloom. When you left, I found sadness. Work at sunrise, rest at sunset, and night falls. Your shadow stubbornly follows, you can't find a flame to distract your attention, and you can't find a song to bury you. No matter how deep you hide, you can't escape your eyes. Why don't we sit still, look, think deeply, penetrate time, turn red gradually, and the fiery red cloud on the horizon-
Millennium moonlight, gradually illusory. In July, I bared my teeth in a quiet night. When you hit the keyboard, many words will pop up. Some sentences, like steel needles in the text, plunge into the skin and viscera, which always hurts the heart and lungs. Like some notes, they bloom in the dark, and the sound is high and low. Perhaps, along the tunnel of time, I pushed open the emotional wall, fell into your arms, stayed silent all night, and even for the rest of my life, you will hear the words in my heart?
The face in the diamond-shaped mirror in the morning is dim, which is because the sunshine in July is blazing, the ultraviolet ray concentration is high, and the body temperature is burning. No, just no lively singing, no inspiring words, no hearty agreement. The flower buds outside the wall have renovated the calendar again, and those clever steps in the past have been drawn long by the time corridor. The looming aperture in the distance is close to me. Stretch and close, close your blurred but clear sight. Whose head shows the simplicity of wind and frost first, one or two clumps, thin and dense, even if it is uprooted, it still can't get rid of the entangled heart.
Leaves fall gently around me, rustling. Some stories are far away, others are close. Jiangnan in July is full of water conditions. Jiangnan is just in summer, flowers bloom and fall, roses extend to the center of the earth, rain grows fiercely, gorgeous figures are just words, and pale figures are out of sight. Have you ever regretted it? It's too hot here. Did you go through the nearby wall to visit the quietly blooming roses outside the door? I kissed my lips last year. Was it your kiss? I imagine lovers for many years, broken one by one because of you.
In July, you stood in the wind. In the song-like years, love and flying are another concept. Love is never known until it is separated, which is unforgettable. However, dullness is also a state of mind. You look focused and never give up. In a unique scene, your clear song blows, your flowing music pours down, and the feelings you have accumulated for many years are full of satisfaction and sweetness through the sound of flowers, and slowly spread your soft wings on the night of love. If I understand, separate articles converge on calmness.
The flowers are gradually blooming. When the soul is near, the water is clear. Real smiles are dense, and the reality of clusters of languages is superimposed. Through the jungle of the years, the refined style makes the flame flying forty miles fall from the glass wreath, let the butterflies flying all over the sky walk hand in hand with the breeze, and let the passion and words expose the most primitive truth in the noble soul. Silent flowers speak louder than sound, the sunshine in July is burning, and the holy lotus blooms in poetry. Looking back brightly, another spring blooms in faint pain.
I was upstairs alone.
My upstairs? Did I really own a building? Even I dare not assert myself, because I often feel that I am alone upstairs. There are tall buildings in the northwest, flush with the clouds. I like this. This is my upstairs.
I'm alone in my upstairs. I don't know what I'm doing. My career seems to have created mellow loneliness there. My upstairs is empty, with no furniture or wall decoration. It's quiet and dark here, as if time has never passed here. I seem to be silently saying to myself, "My building? This is my soul's bedroom! I am alone upstairs, but my building lives in my heart. " Besides, I don't know what the world outside the building is like, such as climbing a cliff. What's behind the cliff? I can't climb the cliff, so I am helpless.
I would never touch my hand. Inadvertently, completely unintentionally, I touched my window with my hand (I didn't know the existence of this window at all), but like a young woman in a boudoir, I opened a dressing box with boredom, and suddenly, I saw the death of my youth under the clear light. As for me, I accidentally bumped into this organ, and my window suddenly opened silently. Like a dream, people suddenly open their eyes and stand on the edge of the dream.
I leaned against the window alone.
My window is dark green, from the vast horizon to the window outside my building. Horizon? Or by the sea? The green sea is connected with the green sky, just as grass is connected with the sky. The sea is calm, without a ripple, so my thoughts are condensed on the green water. I stare, I meditate, I meditate without thinking. Suddenly, if I lose something, my loss will never be made up. I regret making such a sigh. My sigh wrinkled my rippling green sea. In an instant, I can tell the difference between duckweed and seaweed, lotus, reed and Western jackdaw. Is this the sea? Isn't this my little pond? I don't know that it's late spring and early autumn, just looking at the endless green, and the green wind is cruising on the green sea with heavy steps. The wind blew into my window from the apple, and I felt very cold. I have dark green sadness, so great and so depressed. I have this sad world, but how much I cherish my world.
There is a fountain hidden in my heart. At this time, my fountain began to gush. When the spring came to my eyes, my building collapsed in an instant.
I don't know who Qiu Si will meet tonight. "
Tears fall hard, and the moon is bright in the middle of autumn. How much to gather and disperse, how much to be free. For example, the wind is getting colder and colder today, who will secretly give a kite against the oblique aperture?
Guess the Mid-Autumn Moon Night: brightly lit, neon overflowing; Wedding, relatives and friends toast; Invite the bright moon, * * * sing joy. The moon is reunited in the sky, and so is the world. However, no matter how perfect the moon is, its color is still faintly cold and secretly yellow. In the warm pavilion, there must be thousands of lights in Qian Qian gathering the expectations of the old people, the blessings of the young people and the laughter of the children; At night, it must be the bleak wind and the faint moon accompanied by students' night reading, the sadness of wanderers and the sadness of the island.
Although the moon is round, its color is cold, and its brightness is decreasing every night. Do you know who Qing Hui is?
The moonlight is cold and bright.
Mid-Autumn Festival night, teenagers dream of laughter, students dream of college. As Long Song, a friend and relative outside the house, joked, we can only write unfinished homework in the hut and at the desk, carefully sort out the courses we have learned and review tomorrow's subjects seriously. For our efforts for more than ten years, for our lifelong belief, we have been sitting under the lamp for a long time, not afraid of hard work, willing to be lonely, studying quietly in the bright moonlight, immersed in the secular noise and our own boating to learn the sea! Xuehai has many ups and downs. On this Mid-Autumn Night, we are accompanied by Qinghui, secretly weaving a lifelong dream in the flawless Qinghui.
Clear and bright diarrhea, diarrhea in front of students' books, precipitation for students, precipitation of future hope like the rising sun!
Yuehua Lingling, Qinghui lighting.
On the night of Mid-Autumn Festival, relatives and friends dream of reunion, and wanderers dream of going home. Many families in the building get together, and the wanderers can only feel sad in their lonely places, work hard to stick to their posts, work hard for their lifelong career, and recall the scenery of their hometown with sadness. For the happiness of family members, for the laughter of others' reunion, the wanderer from afar can only stay in a foreign country, work tirelessly, be willing to be lonely and silent, and stick to his own career outside the warm reunion of others! There are many ups and downs in my career. On this Mid-Autumn Night, the wanderer and Qinghui are friends, and in the bright and clear sunshine, they secretly stick to their lifelong beliefs.
Qinghui spreads all over the country, all over the hearts of wanderers, precipitating for wanderers and precipitating a brilliant future!
Moonlight is burning and glory is singing.
On this Mid-Autumn Night, Chinese mainland and Taiwan Province Province dream of reunification together. No matter how many hostile forces are sharp-edged, no matter how many demagogues spread, China, which stands on the sea and the top of the mountain, will never change. It is its lofty spirit! Thousands of years of historical accumulation, thousands of years of cultural spread, thousands of years of heroic blood and tears condensation, condensation in the deep moonlight night, condensation in the shallow bay, condensation in the Chinese world, wrote a thousand-year-old poem! The autumn moon is full, drawing the thoughts of Taiwan Province Island. What kind of power will the profound meaning of reunion and lovesickness inspire? Just this kind of lovesickness and belief with a thousand years of accumulation is enough to inspire1300 million people's hearts!
Endless brilliance, endless bright moon brilliance?
The Yellow River reflects the moon, the Yangtze River reflects the moon, and the surging national water will sing with the moon. The moonlight in the flowing water, the brightness in the moonlight, the emptiness, dispersion and gathering under the brightness have suddenly become the waning moon in the boundless sky and the smoke after the Mid-Autumn Festival. However, what remains unchanged is the endless Chinese soul!
Horse's self-listening
My horse turned ten-mile apricot flowers into red smoke, mom! I'm back!
Mom, growing up, that steeple stung my eyes every day. It is embedded in my window, in my dream, the only scenery of my lonely childhood, mother.
Now, the champion of the new project, I, Xu Shilin, ride a white horse and wear a red robe to worship my mother.
The horse raised dust on the road, and where I came from was a fog. I pulled out my whip and let the past be the past. I don't need to be told, as long as I follow my blood, I can always meet you, mom.
Now I'm wearing the red robe of the No.1 scholar, just like Hong Haier with red skin 18 years ago. Mom, who can tear off this red robe? Who can give me back my Hong Haier? Who can slap me into ignorant mud and return to your infinity?
They say you are a snake, but I don't know. But I always insist, I remember October's dependence. I am Zhu Xiao, surrounded by your warm spring water. I'll tell them I remember warm milk. They always say I'm just dreaming. They always say I'm just guessing. But, mom, I know I know. I know your blood is warm and your tears are boiling. I know your name.
And the eternal dry Kun, a hundred years old, our mother and son are so thin? It's only been a month, and they took you away. Children with mothers pity their mother's voice, and children without mothers can follow their mothers to the grave. And I, mother, where can I break the evil spell?
Some people divide China into Jiangnan and Jiangbei, others divide the territory into the inside and outside, but for my mother, the world is cut into the bottom and the top of the tower. The bottom of the tower is dark and chaotic for thousands of years. Outside the tower, there are desolate sunshine, helpless spring flowers and forbearing autumn moon ... The tower is in front and the past is behind, so I'm going to worship. But, mom, I'm wandering in benevolence at the moment. For eighteen years, I've tracked the broken umbilical cord all the way to you. It's an endless fear to warm the sun in spring. The tower is firmly embedded in the ground as before. I can't believe it has been with you for eighteen years. I can't believe it will catch you forever.
I haven't seen you for eighteen years, mom. Will your face shrink and dry because of the long wait? Some people say you are beautiful, and I don't need to say it.
admit
It seems that everyone agrees not to let me know your life story, but I know. When I watched a woman draw water by the well, when I watched a woman washing clothes by the river, when I happened to see a girl embroidering at the window or an old woman taking shoes under the lamp, my eyes suddenly got wet. Mom, I know you are the incarnation of a billionaire. Tell me about your image. Mom, I can't see you every day, but I can see you every day. I recognized you one by one in the blink of an eye of a mortal woman.
And you, mom, where did you recognize me? The weight of the tower? On the first line of the sunset glow in Leifeng? In the pulse of the abdominal cavity in the cold and hot weather?
Isn't it, mom? You always knew me. You knew me when I was invisible. You have won my shape from the vastness, and you have never had time or place to slap my adult.
And in Emei Mountain, in the endless valley and precipice of competing for green, mother, am I already in your heart? When you breathe out the morning glow and the evening dew, have I been foreseen by you? I am comfortable in the neon you once looked up at, I slowly rose in the trunk where you once leaned over and pondered, I was in the flowers, I was in the leaves, when the first grass broke out, you heard me in the cheers of spring. Besides the cry of wild geese in autumn, can you tell me, mom? We must have known each other from the beginning. Mom, really, at the moment when you were excited about the world for the first time, I was in your infinite joy, and when you complained and sighed, I hid in your infinite desolation. Mom, we must have known each other from the beginning. Do you remember? Mom. I am in your eyes, in your mind, in your blood, in your limbs, as soft as the flesh of spring.
lake
Mom, when you come to the West Lake, from Emei, where the smoke is green, to the earth, which is ten feet red, is it necessary to take a trip to the earth? But in Lihu, Waihu, Su Causeway, Bai Causeway and Niang, there is no place where you can get respect. Thousands of years of practice can't compare with the blood surname passed down from mouth to mouth in the world. Why do humans only allow themselves to cultivate immortals and monasteries, but not allow everything to be equal to themselves? Mom, I turned pages of sage books and looked at people's faces one by one. The so-called sage books just want us to be human beings. Why don't people really want to be human beings? Damn it! After reading all the people and books, I just want to cry for a long time Mom, no one in the world wants to be such a spoony man like you! Year after year, the geese repeatedly instructed how to write the word "human" in the blue sky overhead, but, mom, no one was reading it, let alone explaining it! The midnight bell in Nanping, the moon in the three pools, the wind and lotus of Qu Yuan, and the West Lake written by literati can have infinite poetry. It's cold all the way in late spring, and Feilaifeng seems to be flying somewhere. Thousands of tourists come and go from the West Lake. Who is grateful for this wonderful scenery and thinking about all kinds of things on earth? Mom, who else is there besides you?
rain
The rain in the West Lake comes like this, in spring. Did you know from the beginning that your father and I were destined to be husband and wife? In the vast world, you only pay attention to the instant warmth under the umbrella. The lake is thousands of hectares, the water waves are cold, and the time is cold. However, under an umbrella, an 84-bone oiled paper umbrella with purple bamboo as the handle, people get together, and there is a human fragrance under the umbrella. Millennium practice is a blank without memory, but the moment under the umbrella is enough to tell the Millennium. Mother, from Emei to the West Lake, the wind, rain and hail in Wan Li are just what you want. So you are attached to the umbrella, but you just love walking with the person under the umbrella. You are happy with that person, just because you love the world, the gentle and tangled world. And people ask about the impermanence of gathering and scattering, mother and umbrella are gathering and scattering, and there are 84 skeletons, each of which may be torn by flesh and blood. Damn it! Maybe you knew from the beginning, so what? You dare to fight between heaven and earth. You don't know what life and death mean. You forced a fairy grass in the sky to turn people's death into life. Who won the battle of Jinshan Temple? Fahai made an effective ceremony, and you, mother, passed on the story of a noisy population. Who needs rituals in the wasteland of the world? What we want is a story that can last forever, a story that can nourish the people, and a story that can shine with childhood dreams and old memories. Finally, mother walked around the merciless blue lake. You came to the broken bridge and cut off the broken bridge of love. The story begins with a lake and ends with a lake. Mom, I can't go back. At the broken bridge, there was an earth-shattering baby crying. We met in each other's tears and then parted.
Bo He
A bowl can cover you. A little darkness is actually the sky above you from time to time. Mom, I woke up in nightmares countless times and struggled in that suffocation. It is said that the Leifeng Tower will be in the afterglow. For thousands of years, only for the infatuation of a woman in town. Mom, can the town live? I don't believe it. Men in the world always think that women are infatuated with them. In fact, where do women love? Don't women love the lakes and mountains in spring and the colorful scenery in the mountains? What a woman loves is the good mood of all the good weather, the clear love in her heart, and the tenderness she can't say. Like a chrysanthemum, a woman clings to her bright and beautiful feelings, but what can a bowl of Fahai cover? Mom, what is taken away is the marriage that can't be taken away. It was your suffocating body that was wronged in that marriage, not your deep feelings that drifted like late spring.
Even the body. Mom, they can only contain a small part of you. Most of you live on me. It is your pride that shapes my bones, and your gentleness flows into my blood. When I breathe, mom, I can feel your lungs. When I leave, I can find your whereabouts in this world. Niang, Fahai never imagined that you were still in the West Lake, freely reading romantic stories and sage books in the flowing water of Qian Shan. Think about what's going on in the world, and ten thousand people in Qian Qian pass by-borrow a boy made of your own flesh and blood, and borrow your son.
No matter how sad I was, when I think about it, I will live well, not just to fight for breath. But to gamble! Mom. You will win, and you will live on me and my children for generations to come.
Sacrificial tower
Mom, the tower is in front and the past is in the back. It's been 18 years. I'm just here to worship-the new world champion, wearing a hairpin and a red robe. We should bow to all kinds of grievances and sorrows.
Mom!
Is that land that was suddenly torn apart?
Is that the sunset glow that suddenly collapsed?
Is that the fallen and tilted Leifeng Tower?
Is mother sobbing and crying?
Is that you? Mother, worshipped by children!
Do you know this red body? 18 years ago, he was a red boy, but now he is Xu Shilin, the new champion of Gonghua Red Robe. How I want to tear this red robe apart, if I can give it back to you, but, mom, can I?
When I read the book of sages in the world, mother, when I began to write about human affairs, I only thought that I was your son and was full of tender and touching infatuation with my lover. At this moment, when I bow my head, I am my father's son, making an earth-shattering kowtow to my 18 years of guilt and helplessness.
And leave the blood on my forehead in front of the tower, and make a long red peach blossom: laugh at the sunrise and sunset, and turn the sound of hitting my head into an eternal dusk drum for Fahai and the tower.
In the world, there will always be poetry books that Qin can't burn, and the tender feelings that the French bowl can't cover. Mother, just looking at this dusk is worth the suffering in countless bones and blood in the past 18 years, mother!
One day Lei Feng will fall, and one day the towering tower will turn into flying mud, leaving only your stubborn delusion about the world!
When I galloped away, when I was in the corner of the world, when I sang, when I cried, mom, I suddenly understood that you looked at me everywhere and knew me very well. My every move is still the fetal movement of that year, pulling you, holding you, surprising you and letting you touch me across the earth. He said, "He is moving, he is moving, what is he going to do?"
Let the tower suddenly move, mother, and be worshipped by the children!
Nostalgia in spring
Spring must be like this: from the foot of the castle peak, a handful of snow can't hold on, with a splash, the cold face turns into a painted face, and a song is sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low and desolate villages, to the hedgerows, to the yellow webbed ducklings and to the soft and soluble spring mud. So charming, so sensitive, but so chaotic. A thunder can make clouds cry all over the sky for no reason, and a cuckoo cry can make a city full of azaleas. When a gust of wind rises, every willow tree will sing a white, empty, inexplicable and inaudible fly. Every fly is a semicolon of a willow. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, but it can still be good and calm. Spring must be like this: the dead stems covered with dark leaves and flowers in the pond cling to an old root, and the roof beams of thousands of families in the north are harassed by wind, bullying and snow, gently embracing an empty bird's nest. Then, suddenly, one day, peach blossoms captured the water profiles of all the mountain villages. Willow trees control the royal ditch and the folk river head-the spring water is like Julian Waghann with a clear-cut flag, which is beautiful because of long-term pious prayer. As for the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the Book of Songs, before the Historical Records and before the characterization of Cang Xie, a lamb suddenly felt juicy when eating grass, a child suddenly felt soaring when flying a kite, a pair of legs suffering from wind pain suddenly felt comfortable, and Qian Qian suddenly felt the blood of water when washing yarn by the river. Birds can start measuring the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blue of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with those wings. Not all birds are excellent mathematicians. They chattered and counted, looked around, and finally dared not publish statistics. As for all the flowers, they have been given to the butterfly to count. Give all the pistils to the bees for cataloging. All the trees were ruined by the wind. Leave the wind to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves to remember and inquire one by one. Spring must be like this, or, somewhere, is it still like this? Through the black forest of the chimney, I want to visit the spring that lingers in the distant years.