A collection of aesthetic essays: misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River
Rain dripped down the eaves covered with green barns for thousands of years, telling the vicissitudes of thousands of years. The green slate under the eaves is scarred and engraved with immortal marks. Bananas outside the window are always so monotonous, full of rustling, as if there is endless sadness, which makes people feel inexplicably depressed.
Old road and small bridge, how many footprints have been washed away by rain, the face under the broken umbrella is still so charming, and how many tearful stories of looking for marriage are propped up by the broken umbrella. The spring rain broke the bridge, but the dream in my heart has never been shattered. The road under my feet is still extending, and the rain in the south of the Yangtze River is still falling again and again.
I like the feeling of rain. It is so quiet between heaven and earth, only the rustling of rain, as if you can hear the cheerful whisper of flowers and plants and the sound of crops. At this time, my heart is quiet, thinking about the girl next door, the boy sitting with me, and my beloved. Rain falls in the air, thoughts melt into the rain, float in the wilderness of distant mountains, float in the branches of trees, and merge into a trickle, forming a long river of thoughts, so there are thousands of ripples in the river, the water is full of flowers, filled with faint fog, and it is intoxicating!
I like the rain in the south of the Yangtze River. Overwhelming, dense, such as silk, such as yarn, light wind and rain.
Like the rain in the south of the Yangtze River, hazy, continuous and romantic, just like a girl's love.
Like the rain in the south of the Yangtze River, it moistens everything, bit by bit, endless, just like the love of a girl.
Standing at the window, my rambling thoughts can't come back, just like the misty rain outside the window, endless, endless, your gentleness, your words, like drizzle, fall in my heart again and again.
I can't forget that we walked in the rain with umbrellas, and the rain soaked half of your body; I can't forget that the mud splashed when I walked stained your flowered skirt; I can't forget that you slipped, and it was me who fell! I can't forget the difference in the rain, nor can I forget the promise in the rain. On that rainy night, we were in the rain, and we couldn't tell whether it was tears or rain on your face. We only heard that you choked and lost your voice: Wait for me, I will definitely come back to see you when it rains in Jiangnan next year.
The rain stopped and people left. From then on, you flew farther and farther away from me for your ideal and to fly higher, and I was alone in my hometown with my luggage, just like a lonely goose in the wind and rain.
Life is on and off, on and off, how helpless!
A few misty rains and dreams, the rain in the south of the Yangtze River falls again and again, but you are gone like time.
The misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, the empty hillside, the misty rain, the rainy sky, the wild goose Qi Fei, but you still don't have a yellow crane in the distance.
The drizzle is beating on the glass window, just like my silent tears, looking at the falling rain, I suddenly understand that things change, people come and go, there is no ship that stops forever, and the long river of life, who will wait for whom? Maybe I'm just a passer-by in your life. There is rain in other places, and there is love in other places. As long as there is love in the heart, where is not home?
The drizzle, woven into a dense net, erased the memories of the past and the thoughts of the present. My love, I want to hold your hand, hold a broken flower umbrella, walk in the wind and rain, watch the flowers bloom, listen to the rain beating bananas, make bows in the sky and underground, and use our hearts *
Aestheticism Prose Collection: Jiangnan
The weather is always wet, and the rainy season that began in late June is continuous and rainy, which makes people breathless.
In the early morning, the breeze was blowing gently, and the drizzle hit the window, and my heart began to be agitated. I know that I am not used to such rainy days, and I even hate such rainy days, so the depressed mood spreads with the ticking rain. At this time, I have a sentimental attachment to Jiangnan Gallery, Wupeng Boat and thatched courtyard.
I think there are still those figures lingering in front of my eyes in Jiangnan, such as Mo Xie's immortal sword spirit, Wu Zixu's bald head and bitter songs, and Gou Jian, the King of Yue who has been working hard. Jiangnan really has not only the sweetness of glutinous rice cakes in Caizhizhai and the soft words of Wunong, but also the majestic and heroic spirit that can carry the tripod.
There are many beautiful scenery in the south of the Yangtze River, and Lihu Lake, which is shaped like a gourd ladle, is a favorite attraction of countless people. The jokes about history that have been passed down to this day are people's longing for love and a blessing to talented people and beautiful women. However, when faced with the downfall of Wu, the deafening cries in Guanju Palace, and the whole world, who thought about his mood at that time? Shang Zhouwang fought against the King of Wu in Jishan, Feng Ming, and da ji destroyed him because of his luck. Zhou Youwang smiled and lit a bonfire for Bo. In the troubled times of the Three Kingdoms, Lu Bu killed Dong Zhuo angrily to win his favor, and then lost to Cao Cao in Xuzhou, and finally died. In his later years, Xuanzong inadvertently took away his daughter-in-law Yang Yuhuan's favor, and An Lushan rose up and rebelled and fled. At the end of the Ming Dynasty, Wu Sangui was angry and fell to the Qing Dynasty. Since ancient times, people have always imposed those death charges on women. When people are enjoying the beautiful scenery in the south of the Yangtze River and lamenting Fu Cha's national subjugation, who will see the unspeakable and complicated tears shed by the stone in Guanwa Palace countless years ago? Jiangnan is also full of endless sadness and sadness.
Outside the city of Gusu, there is a boat full of bright moon and a pot of wine. Zhang Ji wrote the famous a night-mooring near maple bridge in Cold Mountain Clock.
The former Yan of Wang Xietang was silent, and the former family had already disappeared in this historical struggle. The years passed silently, the evening breeze was cool, the guqin was long, the flute was broken, and the flute was sad, all of which quietly faded in these years.
In the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, I can vaguely smell the faint fragrance of ink and paper?
Aestheticism Prose Collection: Jiangnan
I once fantasized that I was in an ancient courtyard in the south of the Yangtze River, with blue-gray tiles, white walls and carved wooden windows.
I go out for a walk every evening. Every time I go out, I have to look at the turtledove on the buttonwood tree. Over time, the turtledove will look at me when I go out. When I come back at night, I will meet many strangers or familiar people in the long alley. I gave them a smile, and I found that the pale yellow days were as thin as cicadas, and one piece drifted by gently.
There is a kind of flower that will bloom at the moment I walk to the door, and its fragrance will overflow in the air instantly. Every time that flower blooms when I appear, it seems that it has been accumulating strength, it captures my breath, and it will resolutely bloom beautiful flowers when I appear. Or there is a mysterious will in me that drives me to come at the moment of flowering, neither too early nor too late.
When I crossed the wall at half moon, frogs were everywhere. Fifty miles away, the moonlight splashed by frogs wet my skirt.
If it rains, I would like to hold up a paper umbrella and walk into the deep rain lane on the green flag. Years leave mottled traces and old walls. Over time, I wonder if they have listening ears and listen to the voice of the years. Footsteps make a soft sound, such as gentle water waves overflowing and turning back gently, and overlapping sounds float leisurely. I don't know if there is a window quietly open, waiting for a passer-by in Jiang Nanyu.
? Is the Millennium frost? Such a poem is Jiangnan. Of course, there are Iraqis who like water. It suddenly occurred to me that Jiangnan is closely related to women. I don't know who endowed who with spirituality and who made who beautiful. Like water, Iraqis sit by the water, and the silvery white river is shining, deep and far-reaching. The white flowers of reeds are beautiful and touching. As long as she waves, all the white flowers will turn into white birds or butterflies and fly around. The moonlight enveloped her like a white gauze. Her skin is smooth and her eyes are clear as water. Her smile only appeared on her face for an instant, and countless smiles were scattered in the air.
Such Jiangnan is always fascinating and memorable in the bottom of my heart.