Seeking aesthetic prose, poetry and ode.

The awaken of spring is deep, the secluded window is silent, and Yi Deng is lonely. At this moment, my thoughts are blown away by the breeze. At the moment of opening the world of mortals, there seems to be a dyed mood, indifferent. People are still the same, and the years flow; The dream remains the same, and the sunset is old. Deep in the lights, I still remember my original heart. Sitting alone in the dark, watching the moon eager to talk and rest, I felt shy all over the floor. Remembering some sentences, "The only moonlight I remember in this life is the first string of curved eyebrows …", I couldn't help laughing. The ink was not dry before the case.

The night is quiet. Meditation, Ting Yun's water Zen rhyme, and the meaning of flooding into one, brushed his face. Whose heart is it? It is delayed and doubted at the end of the world. Whose hand is holding the reins on the other side of the bank? I don't know and I don't want to think about it. Only Juejun's face, at the bottom of memory, gradually hides and deepens. The wind is coming, the curtains are moving, gently rolling up the youth you left behind. The moon by the window reflects my slender sleeves, like a lotus flower. When the flowers are dyed, they blow into the rhythm of water and clouds as soon as they are played. Drunk, drunk. I wonder if there will be your footsteps wandering quietly in front of the door full of imagination.