Sitting by the window, sipping fragrant tea, let the dense smoke rising in Ran Ran linger in the shallow stomach, like a wandering soul five steps away. The tears that fell in the dream before have turned into raindrops, awakening the Millennium water lily that is sleeping in the lotus pond of the flower stand, and a trace of fragrance extends my long thoughts along the sparkling lotus mist. The rolling beads of rain on the lotus leaf are swaying with crystal-clear gibberish, as if they were me in a previous life.
Under the glass lamp cap, a book of songs was gently opened, and the smiling Huansha woman, holding an umbrella from Touching Green, slowly came into my eyes like a dream: a faint mist was covered, and a flash of light floated under the red lattice window, which could not hide her last purple halo. Outside the Book of Songs, the poem awakened by the window bell, singing softly under the eaves, is ringing every colorful dream of mine.
Gently pushed open a fence door, three or two drops of raindrops fell from the cracks in the trees, passed my eyes coldly, and splashed countless tiny ripples in my heart. Under the rain curtain, I bent down to pick up a fallen leaf, let my warm fingers touch the faint fragrance of a drop of rain and dew, and listen to the leaves pour out to the tree with a pious attitude. That faint acacia, then indulge in this chapter of wind and rain ensemble Sanqu ancient rhyme.
A gentle breeze blows gently, blowing weeping willows and blue skirts, swaying in secluded alleys and stone paths, courtyards and waterside pavilions. ......
Singing at dusk
The wind blows from the distant Chang 'an, gently blowing the long hair in my memory, and the past floats in my heart like a fallen flower, with endless dreams.
Open an umbrella and walk alone in the evening drizzle. Listening to the sound of clear raindrops kissing the bluestone board under the umbrella eaves, I think of that passionate autumn and you in the distance. The wind is soft and the rain is light, which makes me enter a passionate season that makes me dream more.
The wind of the four seasons, passing through the cloister of previous lives, took away my tenderness in this life, turned into a canoe, supported the ballad board at dusk, crossed the bridge in the south of the Yangtze River, and stood in front of your window with a faint butterfly shadow: watching your elegance with low eyebrows and burning incense, listening to the lingering of the courtyard rain hitting the banana. Let the wind and rain play, the willows dance and the flowers fly, and the fragrance falls all over the clothes.
Gently stretch out a pair of hands, pick up a bunch of falling tears, fill a sleeve of calligraphy and poetry, and stroke your shoulder. It's a trace of falling red and floating dye. Who is standing on the adagio in the dusk, holding three red teeth in the Huanhua Pavilion, and singing the song Manman? Whether there is your graceful beautiful image flowing in the blue waves and green waters.
Licking the tenderness of a drop of rain and indulging in the ink fragrance of ancient poetry, I tasted endless love. In this poetic twilight rain, I stopped at the mossy stone steps, cut out the graceful background and made long memories. Moss-paved years are full of mottled green leaves, which are watered full and light by crystal drops.
The endless rain is a long miss, and the long stone road is the dusk I can't walk out of.
Yan Ying Qiuhu
The ancient Wu Peng boat pulled my eyes and gently knocked on the south of the Yangtze River, where the door left unlocked.
In the misty prospect, the mountains and swamps are hidden, and those tiled pavilions are like jade inlaid between green mountains and green waters by kingfishers, beautiful and simple. A few strokes of drinking cigarettes curled in the wind, casting a blue ink background on the evening in the south of the Yangtze River.
In this smoky, silent sketch; A slender Wu Peng boat staggered towards me, dragging an ancient water and a green water, dragging me into a vast ink painting.
..... In the light rain, Swift, who came home late, walked obliquely through the lake pavilion with a dusk ballad in her mouth, and gently put it on the water, stirring up the Yan Ying on the lake ... In the dusk drums, Swift hastily picked up his own shadow from the ripples and disappeared into the misty rain and fog. ......
When the shallow man and Shui Ze in the lake caught my eye, I suddenly remembered the sad eyes of the thoughtful woman in an ancient poem.
..... She looked at the sky silently, dusk was devouring her charm, and smoke clouded her amorous eyes in the past ... When the last swallow disappeared in the dusk, she cried. ......
Why can't you stop drowning your shadow?
The breeze gently supported her shoulders, but it could not stop her tidal convulsions. The shore willow can't erase her sorrow, and the reed flower is her gray hair.
Who suspects that the decadent lotus leaf is a thoughtful woman's hand with rhythmic rhythm, which makes the wind and rain endless? Dispel the fragrance and disappear the face. Who plunged the flowers of watching into the fence of missing and drowned 3,000 years into a clear tear? Eyes see through, hair dyed white. Loneliness grows in the middle of the lake, and the stream is your affectionate tears. At the end, the autumn water is invisible, and the smoke and dust road has been deserted.