The pen and ink that have been put on hold for a long time have been dried by years. Sitting quietly in a corner, whispering with autumn, the words are a little cold. The street where the wind lives is full of loneliness. If the mountains of time are clear and the water show of time can't be carved, why should I persist? Looking back, give a gentle heart, let the fleeting wind flowers be crystal clear by the snow moon and convert to pure white.
My hometown is a paradise I can't go back to. On the shore of the West Lake, there is no past dialogue. A wisp of melancholy is dyed by autumn, and the dizzy story is full of once purples. If you make a sound, you can interpret all the sadness. Is all desolation spring?
A watchman, obsessed with the cycle of fleeting time. That year, some farewells gradually lost their color in Momoka. Looking back, there is no disappointment, only a touch of melancholy. The wind has passed, and I have learned to cherish. The days of sitting across the street are very dull and quiet. The wind-dried pen and ink fell asleep in the poem. At the moment, I don't want to write a poem, I just want to hug once.
Hold hands with strangers and do it with pity. After listening to a song and singing it thousands of times, the melody is no longer important. The past has been put aside for so long that I have forgotten my original intention. After the prosperity, there will always be silence. Like ripples in water, it seems that I have been here, but I can't find any traces. In the past, in this way, it was silently painted with a layer of silent color. Then, leave everything in my heart.
The yellowing branches make a calm heart feel a little flustered. A lot of misty rain hasn't been painted yet. If it runs aground, I wonder if it will happen again next season. Time is like an hourglass, quietly filtering out all the resentment and resentment, leaving only some love and taking root in my heart. With the warmth of years, I feel my heart is as soft as water at this moment. Accompanied for many years, never separated. Then, when I am old, I will meet you. Even if the hair is frosty and the face is full of vicissitudes, we will still recognize each other at the moment of looking at each other.
You don't need to express your wishes for many years. In my eyes, in my heart, I have long been precipitated by years into a strong, fearless wind and rain, and never give up. I never wanted to have it, and I never wanted to leave it. It's just that I've been looking forward to meeting again, warming my heart and letting the fireworks bloom brilliantly. Even for a moment, it is enough. All my life, I have been looking back inadvertently.
The wind has passed, and I have learned to cherish. When all the past events pass away gently, all greetings and trust, all blessings and heartfelt words are precipitated into the truest and purest fragrance, so I wrote in the poem of years: years are like songs, I miss you as before!