In the faint air, there seems to be the fragrance of lily, and people leave a sigh in their hearts when they leave the building empty. I should have understood that love is a game. If you make a wrong move, you will lose the whole game. It's just that you don't know that no matter how I go, I'm a loser. What does it matter if you make a wrong step and lose every step? Sending ephemera to heaven and earth is a drop in the ocean, like cicada, keeping pace behind the years, rushing to catch up slowly, and holding the despair in the depths of floating life with wings. If you can retire in a tear, you will never mention the vicissitudes of life again.
You can cross the river with a reed, but after seven years, you still can't break this relationship. Am I too stupid, the snow is too heavy, or the people under my feet are too deep in each other? You don't know me. I don't blame you. The rivers and lakes are so big that people who walk around with flowers will naturally find shelter in their hearts when they spit on the moon in the cold mountains.
Let's just say, since we have chosen to go in this life and go alone with the past, we should easily throw this sadness into the waiting of years. I don't want to meet again, but I silently hope to be intoxicated with the fishing fire in Banjiang again on this snowy night where no one has visited. The taste of the world is pure joy, surging like a fairy. Miss, flattery, make a pot of sweet wine with ten-mile peach blossoms, and let miss fall into the wine bowl of years.
I will keep walking until the water blocks my way. I will sweep the night sky with charming eyes and ask myself the numerology of the disease through the clouds and you. Like this, who has seen through the autumn water? Clouds don't talk, and you don't talk. There is no cure for this disease. Bend down to look closely, but suddenly on this diluted prescription, I see that the lonely Jingting Mountain emits a few rays of clear light: with five dollars from Grain Rain in the mountain, two dollars from Yuanzhi, Angelica San Qian, supplemented by moonlight, decocted with dew, it can not only clear the liver and improve eyesight, but also resolve the old shadow squeezed by the heart. ...
The west wind is more or less annoying, but it can't blow away the eyebrows. Still have to rely on acacia to ease. I saw the man with an umbrella in the painting walking farther and farther around the corner of the green flag, and his footsteps were paranoid to stay between the strings of silk and bamboo. Only when the moon and stars were scarce and blackbirds flew south, they played a long and cold tune. Like clouds and moons, like water flowers. From then on, the voice of missing, colorless and tasteless, only echoed in my mind, and the moonlight passed away before I taught this bed. March grass grows and warblers fly, weaving half the sky and mountains into a splendid dress. Since then, the farmhouse wine in the mountain village has become the best crutch in the journey.
I will keep walking until the river stops. My way is a string on the golden harp, and on that string is China's New Year.
Walking among the clouds, the stars appear ethereal and far-reaching, and even the moonlight is so sad; Stroll in the courtyard, let the wind stop, only stubbornly stop before the maple leaves turn red; Walking in the bamboo garden, I saw the pine and cypress put on their new clothes, and the green and yellow met, but the night behind them was not over.
One plays the piano in the snow, and the other sings in the snow. All the roads in the world are hidden in the snow. The seasons don't stop, and time doesn't stop. I lost myself in emptiness and couldn't find it. How many flowers fall in the dream. Our life, this short decades, in addition to watching, what is left?
Through the flowers, every leaf never touched the body. When Bloom's flowers withered, people came and went everywhere. Suddenly, a long and thin voice crossed the waters of Qian Shan and came from the depths of the clouds in a low voice: forget the world of mortals, be clear and see sex. Yes, there is nothing in the world, and where to find this dust; Where should I leave this dust? Everything is as short as a spring dream. Mo Wen woke up and forgot who he was, but the idle dreams made people haggard. One day, we will get old at any time, and how many people will pursue those stories hidden on the back of leaves?
More and more people crossing the river became guests in time. Like water, like water. Sigh, this ending is an inescapable fate long ago. Once upon a time, I liked the subtle sadness and smoothness in Song Ci, and I found it between pen and ink, like a meticulous painting with a long history. As long as I get some water, I can create an immortal legend.
Now, standing between heaven and earth, watching the weather turn sunny and cloudy, it finally began to rain. It seems that every emotion is inseparable from rain. Rain is always an important way to express emotions by using scenery, from buttonwood to drizzle. The ancients did this, and so did modern people. White clouds and pale dogs, things are different. It is better to move mountains than to rain at dusk. Time will eventually erode us and carve us into tearful idols. Life is like a play, and love is the Tsing Yi in that play. A look, the swing of a sleeve and the aria of flowing water are always in the dark, which is fascinating.
At the end of the song, people dispersed, and suddenly looking back, the people who were still singing on the stage were polished beyond recognition by time. Things are different, the flame of history is still burning, and my hometown in my heart has long been the loneliness and depression in A Smoke in Sichuan, A Wind in the City.
A light rain wet the butterfly that tried to fly over the sea, and also wet my long-lost desire. Every rainy day seems to be suitable for nostalgia; It seems that every old friend should pursue it. I always thought that missing is delicious and can be put into people's mouths to savor it. It's just a pity that even though I have tasted all the tastes in the world, I still don't know the taste of missing, and I haven't even touched its edge. Perhaps, missing is there, on my other side, without mountains and dew, enchanting and frivolous.
Walking in the snow in Xun Mei, flowing in the green streams. During the walking time, perhaps, you can see the shadow of missing. Walking through every day in a hurry, smelling the sandalwood smell curled up every night, in the dream, in the smoke, in the water town, that quiet figure, with a shallow smile, is enough to charm the whole country.
At this time, although I don't miss you, I seem to have a touch of sweet honey in my heart.
I will go on until the river stops. My road is picturesque and beautiful as snow. Even if it is gone, scattered and disappeared, this figure, this smile, will always melt in the sunset and stay in the twilight. Here's the thing. I love you deeply, and I insist. The fate of past lives doomed the reunion of this life. But at the moment when I passed by, I still couldn't help looking back again and again. The white sail that walks by the river is not the person who has to wait in this life. Tears in the wind have turned into mottled moss on bamboo in ChristianRandPhillips. It is love, hate, robbery and life. It turns out that what I am desperately looking for and trying to get rid of is so clingy and so concerned. ...
In the night sky where every meteor crosses, I will put my hands together and make a pious wish. When I walk quietly on the edge of the world, you watch silently behind me. That's enough, that's enough. Five hundred years before the Buddha, all I wanted was this fate, this heart and this feeling. Fate, self-waving a sleeve; Fate has gone, and there is no cloud left. Then, they parted ways, holding an altar of agarwood wine, dipped in rich new ink, and passed out in bloom's poems in the past, making them at sunrise and dying at sunset. Whether it is love or hate; Call it robbery, it's life. If you want to go, go far; If you want to come, you will have a long time.
Wandering in the Tang poetry, looking up, is the sigh of a generation of poets, "Although the country is divided, the mountains and rivers last forever, and the vegetation is spring." The fireworks in March are brothels in Yangzhou city; During the Qingming Festival, it is a restaurant outside Xinghua Village. Landscape poetry and painting are immortal in the hands of generations of literati. The moon and the breeze witness the changes of the sea; Clouds and clouds are smooth, recording the fragments of geese coming and going. The word front is elegant, and Wanli is written in a flash. This Tang Dynasty, full of lofty sentiments and prosperous spring breeze, finally got a cold disappointment in a Song of Eternal Sorrow, until it was heartbroken and finally turned over and never mentioned again. Persistence is so sacred and so lonely. After all, not every scholar will have Du Shaoling's insistence. Giving up dreams is to go further. We use smug intelligence to do the addition, subtraction, multiplication and division of life, thinking that this is perfect, and it is inevitable that we will lose in the end, and there is no chance to make a comeback. Walking between Tang poems, the cuffs are bright moons and the belts are mountains and rivers. No matter how narrow the world is, there will always be a place in my heart where I can put the old suitcases of these years. There is no safe with a password, only a poetic heart can open it. If no one comes to drive, just wait.
Don't be afraid, there will be an infinite shelf life if you wait.
Walking between Song Ci, opening the mouth is to pick up the lamp and blow the horn in drunkenness and dreams. From Buji to Huanxisha, from Bodhisattva Man to Xijiangyue, from Partridge Sky to Youth Travel, how many blue guests were drunk after listening to a long song. Then I am crowned Fu, the antelope hangs books, the firefly reflects snow, the thief steals light from the wall, the beggar, the snow stands at the door, and the dragon field is enlightened ... He gets drunk when he is drunk, dances when he is drunk, and polishes the iron sword in his bag when he is drunk. The moon hangs in the sky, unable to shine on the lover's face, tears of parting; Cold nights are also lonely, and there are many worries about the iron horse of Jinge beyond the Great Wall. Walking between Song Ci, boarding a dangerous building and patting the railing, you can see the clear autumn of Chutian from a distance. The bright moon of the Qin dynasty and the border of the Han dynasty have long since disappeared. If you don't live long enough, your wisdom will be hurt. Only under the bodhi tree, you can call Mo, Mo and Mo with your bare hands, but when you land, you can see your heart clearly, sit on the futon and sigh three times.
The river of time can't go back. Even if it can flow back, there will be no more plot at that time.
Walking between Yuanqu and listening to the voice of Zigui are all the lamentations of "I can't live without my brother". The shepherd who escaped from the Tongguan ancient road, the infatuated person who immediately passed by the city wall, and see how the scholar who dreamed of visiting the park met a candlelight marriage in the long night when no one was there. In the Peony Pavilion, Long song is Yi, not by plum trees but by willow trees. Once I wake up from my dream, all I can keep is the fragrance of beautiful women. Without even kissing her lips, they quickly disappeared into the dust. Is it joy, sadness, clear sorrow, thin resentment, or just a cold plum on the broken bridge? It seems like an instant, but in fact it's an infinitely long life. In the end, I couldn't even keep a flower, but I could only watch it decadent day by day. How many people pass by this faint fragrance? It's Mahuangyang. Colorful costumes set off willow blue and orange yellow, jingling in the collision between sleeves and skirts. The spring and autumn pavilion has not yet arrived, and the crown robe has been covered with acacia cold. Is it time, years, or just a pair of affectionate eyes shining on the stage? Walking between Yuanqu and the thunderous thunder in June, you are light, you are electricity, and you are the lotus of Zhongzhouji.
When the wind blows, it turns into a pool of green leaves, full of affection. But you didn't mean to disappoint your beauty and beauty. Fortunately, there is also an orange light. By the dim light of the city, I accidentally drank the wine in the cup. It's a pity that the wine in the glass never stops.
Wandering between novels, watching a life full of holes, how to repair this belated love with dying hands. Bloom is warm in spring, and many students and teenagers are not cheap. Independent cold autumn, but the eyes, but have already seen the scenery and old things in Orange Island. I think life is short and my heart is deep. After all, I will be killed by the wind. That Fang Hung-chien, that Su, that, that Leng Qingqiu, that, that Fan Liuyuan ... ended up with an old beauty, but the fleeting time left people behind. Novel is a kind of life. Wandering between novels, ungrateful people are hateful, and treacherous people should be killed. Only that lingering, that sadness, that yearning, like spring grass, is still alive.
Walking between the heavens and the earth of life, if it is a blink of an eye, it is only sudden. One day, prosperity will be exhausted. As long as you find the support of that heart in the corner of the world of mortals, it is enough for the legendary swordsman to live this life. Or a book, or a pot of wine, or a piano, or a sword ... I will go on until the water blocks my way, and I see the water and the poor. If there is only cold rain and Leng Xiang, it is better to make a cup of tea, and then listen to the cold rain and smell the fragrance in every waking moment. Get up when the tea is cold and get drunk when you wake up. In this bustling world, between this promotion and change, there will be latecomers, like me, who will walk on the edge of the world all their lives.