The afternoon sun has become extremely thin and fleeting.
The wind harvests autumn. The secrets that cannot be deciphered by the annual rings in the changing seasons are swept away by the drifting ginkgo trees. The poem "Qin Feng Han Yu" under the Xuan Window is allowed to be interpreted by the veins of a red leaf, and the rhyme moves step by step towards the vastness. I stood at the intersection of winter, folding the last autumn colors with a cherry scarf, and the days became more and more skinny.
As the bonfire begins to burn out, the woods and riverside have a reason to be cold. The feathers left behind by flying birds have their own nests on high branches to remember the warmth of the past. Still water and cold waves, sinking fish match the rhythm of the slow and deep current.
Your name, like a whisper in the wind, has become the most anticipated thing in my heart.
Your name is a dream dreamed by a dandelion who has wandered for too long in the red dust on the road, among the wild grass and smoke. Hunger and thirst have a refreshing taste. The fallen flowers are colorful, the soul spread out on the land, joyful and transparent.
Your name is the vision of a cloud. Yun Qian sleeps in the blue sky, listening to the gathering horn of the west wind. And all the haze is waiting for the grand transition after the tossing and turning of the clouds.
Your name is the sadness of a windowpane that has broken through the Spring and Autumn Period. Flowers in spring and fruits in autumn adjust the beauty and abundance of life according to the time and climate. The silence after letting go is like a passer-by of the past, and the light touch stirs up the melancholy of the moment. The complicated and involved yesterday gives echoes and reflections to the windows. Time is like a knife, the dew is condensed with frost, and finally it is as simple as water, with tears flowing in a curtain of light.
Your name is the flavor of your homeland. The crops grow one after another, piously handing over the results without rhetoric to the silver sickle. The fathers gathered around a firewood fire, and the matsutake mushrooms on the north slope bloomed in the flames, while the light blue flowers on the south slope bloomed. The roasted meat newly put on the stove is still half-cooked, and it hurts without singing or drinking, exuding a hint of the fragrance of the twelfth lunar month. They spat and sipped about the abundance of the land and worries about the outside world, throwing all their unnecessary words into a boiling pot of smoked tea, and their sorrow was diluted in the open ceramic cup. The village is old, and confusion and hope are still knocking on the door asking for shelter. Regardless of life or death, the smoke from the kitchen is used to burn the escape of the west wind. When I think of your name, all kinds of emotions come to me; when I think of your elegance, the peppercorns shine, and the old eaves change their appearance.
Are you here? I don't know how to invoke a holy name with the sounds of the past.
So, I spread out the paper and wanted to use the topic to express myself. Your name, in my mind, turns into a quiet and soft flight that fills the sky. I can recite poems but cannot write ink.
Then, wait for you. Although there are many forgotten corners in Nancun and Beizhuang in the south of the Yangtze River, the wind and winter, the steep mountains and rocks, and the fertile fields and plains, are all watching with deep affection in the torrent of changing stars. In the frosty wind of watching, the marks of the years are swirling around your name. A sea of ??flowers blooms that makes the whole world fall into silence. Gentle comfort, vastness, purity.
Jiangnan is like a dream, with flying flowers chasing dreams.
Your name - Snowflake, a dancing dream within a dream. Waiting for you, waiting for the next new life of beautiful water and lush vegetation.