The thin, winding line extends forward. The thin line that separates the silvery white sandy beach and the azure blue water seems to be difficult to figure out at all. The sea is the heart reflected in the sky, always full of a color and a feeling. I walked along this long coastline, together with the birds in the sky and the fine sand on the beach, and accepted all the sorrows, joys and longings with a broad attitude. Look, the sea is still flowing inside the line, and I am still flowing outside the line.
The thin spring water flows in a curved way, making the spring water more gentle. The emerald green water and the snow-white clouds looked at each other, and the dark gray wings of a few pigeons were frozen. New flowers are still carnivaling, old rain is still showing off, rendering means brokenness, but a light-colored landscape brings out countless dark desires. The charming light will not be still, and the charming poetry will not be still. Although the dryness will reach the roots of the years, I know that there is still spring water behind the spring water.
There is always a white line in my heart, ten miles long, nine miles bent, curved like a moon, white like clouds. Clarity and soothing come from the horizon and go to the bottom of my heart. A glance back, a smile, and you fall in love, and you become absorbed in concentration. The glimmer of life is walking in the vast sky, and what is reflected in the heart of the river is the emotions of three lives that are haunted by dreams.
A lake, a crescent moon, moving and still, dark and bright. The water is clear, the moon is cold, the trees are quiet and people are idle. Looking at the moon by the lake, it is cold and cool. The beauty of the lake and moon, one is idle in the water, and the other is idle in the sky. Year after year, occasionally looking back, the green lake and the yellow moon are still there, making my mind feel quiet and my heart relaxed.
Terraces are really a land art . At a glance, there are rows, rows, and blocks, layer upon layer, twists and turns, meandering down from the clouds and circling up from the foot of the mountain. It is based on the situation of the mountain, with uncanny craftsmanship, unique ingenuity, and natural creation. It is as dignified as prints and as ethereal as music scores. From the green seedlings to the golden rice and wheat, the terraced fields are the most beautiful flowing poem.
A winding path in the garden stretches into the distance like a silver stream. After the rain, the path is slightly wet and moist. There are trees of various names on both sides, with the same tree body, different flowers, and different looking postures. This garden is exquisite, but my mood is sloppy. Walking on the quiet path is like walking on my heart.
The clouds are white, the water is clear and green, and the green mountains on both sides are lined up, forcing a few small orchid boats in the river. I stood on the bow of the boat, breathing the moist air to my heart's content, and the birds were chirping and flying happily into the distance. The boat is sailing on the narrow Lijiang River, and the red lanterns at dusk shine through the unnecessary thoughts on the river. I looked up at the sky, which was also curved. The glow in the west floated on the blue water, giving people a dizzy feeling.
Long and winding, one end leads to the mountain and the other leads to the heart. Thick trees, slender grass, and occasionally water birds passing over the water. The sun in the west is blood red, and the surrounding wind gathers on the river, rolling up rows of snow-white waves from time to time. The Wei River is sometimes closer and sometimes far away, flowing back and forth in my empty field of vision. I walked on the deserted river embankment and saw the cold river water drowning the meager memories of the past.
They hang low together and rise high together. The password of early spring is revealed in the humble place, so buds burst and green grows. They met slowly in the water, separated quickly in the wind, occasionally entangled, occasionally overlapped, until a drizzle covered the thin willows. Because there is no boundary, it is very lonely. The dense willow leaves block the sight, and Yu He can not see each other's vastness in the vertical and horizontal lines. The same lake reflects countless willow branches, and countless willow branches cling to the same sun.
When I get older, I like to look at trees without moving. Trees are like this, and so are people. The leaves are almost falling off, and only the thin and curved branches are swaying gently in the wind. I thought that when the tree was beautiful, with flowers blooming on its branches and fragrance fragrant, it looked happy and contented. If the flowers wither, the tree will become quiet, just recall the past quietly, and grow old quietly with the past. A cool breeze blew in the sky, and my eyes were full of the yellow old days.
The dusk light shines through the dim windows and onto the curved stairs. The wooden stairs were many years old, and stepping on them felt like stepping on bones that were about to break. Going upwards seems to be looking forward to an ambiguous future; going downwards seems to be reliving a dreamy past. The more important thing is to stop for a moment at the corner of the stairs and open your blurred eyes to capture the trembling feeling of loss that passes through my heart.
Someone is practicing yoga in the garden at night. The thick fog, the frivolous people, and the night light shining on their bodies are like dynamic sculptures. In the one-stop movement, she is just a wordless character, moving towards ethereal fantasy and deep loneliness. She is graceful and elegant. In the quiet night, she may meet another self, just at the bend of the body, just when the soul is at ease.
The night is curved in my field of vision. Street trees and neon lights curve around the somewhat blurry night, as deserted as the crescent moon and as silent as the eyes of stars. A dense grass road connects the twists and turns of the road. The drizzle falls at a finer moment, and wild flowers bloom in wilder places. Joy and sorrow have gone together, life and death have gone together, and we have gone through this speckled night together.
There are no good things in plain talk, good things always lie in the winding paths. At every turn, a flower blooms, at every turn there is a forest, at every turn there is a spring, and at every turn there is a standing stone. The good times bump into people's chests. What happens is an accident, and what happens is a surprise. Unexpected surprises are always unforgettable.
I think the crooked things are so beautiful, the moon in the sky, the rivers on the ground, and the branches on the trees. At the bend of the river, you stood there with your eyebrows crooked and your arms crooked. I saw you bending your waist with a smile for some reason. The moon bent the valley, the river bent back the cries of birds, the trees bent back dewdrops, but you said nothing, you said nothing, but you bent away another throbbing heart--
