1. Life can actually be a poem. If you can let me move on slowly, I hope to find it quietly. With the deepening of dusk, through the unknown mud and dark clouds, I finally shed tears for all the missed or not missed encounters.
In fact, life can always be a poem in the end. My heart will be cleaner after the rainstorm. If you are willing to wait, all the clouds will eventually merge into a river.
The evening sky after the rain is as quiet as a shawl on the shoulders of a praying woman. The blue meaning of the leaves is the flowing sea, where the tired body bathes. We sheltered from the rain under the locust tree, sat and watched the clouds after the rain, watched the dusk recede, watched the night advance, and watched the first star flash from the forest.
What is sleeping in time with imaginary sadness? What often flies away from the years and what flies away quietly? We are holding hands, our hearts are leaning against our hearts, and the stream is listening to us quietly. When a frog jumps on the grass, I seem to see the earth blinking.
The green treetops are shining with golden light, and the square has become an ocean! A group of barefoot children are as happy as immortals in the water. I stepped on the water hard, and the splash was high. He shouted: "Sister, be careful, slip!" Said he slipped! He patted his wet mud trousers and said, "Shit-shit!" .
But his red, beaming face exudes excitement and pride. My little sister pursed two short pigtails and followed her muddy trousers closely. She bit her lip and carried her skirt, running gently and carefully, but she hoped she could have such a good autumn!