Mountain Village Landscape Painting At dusk, the beauty is always so pure, so peaceful, like the rippling eyes of a girl in her prime, clear and ethereal. The afterglow of the setting sun slanted down, outlining the charm of the mountain village. In the village, the smoke curls up like a dream wrapped in a gauze. After dreaming, I wake up again, leaving only sighs and broken memories in my mind, allowing them to spread like clouds, spread, spread... the afterglow. The village in the center is like a bride who is about to get married, wrapped in a layer of red phoenix clothes, her head lowered shyly, and two red clouds rise on her face. Deep in a secluded alley, an old scalper waggled his tail, drooped his head, and waddled back. A group of sheep walked past with dancing steps and humming a tune. They were so happy! An old man was waiting anxiously outside Chaifei, sometimes looking at the deep path in the mountains, sometimes pacing back and forth in front of the door. The years climbed up the old man's dark face, and with a pair of deft hands, he carved a trace of growth rings on the old man's face, rippling away like water waves, flowing into history and being forgotten and abandoned. Time climbed up on the old man's shoulders, and dyed the old man's hair white with those magical hands. That silver thread flashes the story of vicissitudes of life in the afterglow. The only thing accompanying the old man was his rough, dry bamboo stick. The bamboo stick has no luster anymore, and all that is left is the curved spine. What the old man cares about is when the shepherd boy's flute will sound.
The singer pheasant in the mountains has never been able to bear loneliness. So, she sang an aria to the sunset. She left her memories to the past and pursued the dawn of tomorrow. The wheat seedlings sway in the wind, blooming with beauty and vitality.
The wind blows, and there are very few mulberry leaves. What is left are only broken branches and leaves...
Wandering in the natural landscape, strolling on the field paths, the fresh air fills your sleeves. Come, people have to shout, "I am so envious and leisurely, and my sadness is fading away."
Is the Tian family outlined in the setting sun indifferent? Is it leisure? Is it frustration? Or is it just a dream as far away as the fairyland on the sea? Dream? Throughout the ages, many literati have become drunk, slept, dreamed, woke up, and broken again in the faint afterglow of the sunset... Fantasy! Let all this turn into the bleak rain all over the sky, to irrigate that broken heart...
There is a faint Zen flavor in the mountains, rivers and countryside, everything is quiet? Quiet! Quiet...