The handwritten years are a lovely letter. Suddenly, I read ten thousand poems in sixty years. I hope there is a line that will not forget my lovesickness.
write a happy meeting. Outside the curtain, the mist of ink, the long gown of the man's life, is coming towards you.
describes the water town in Jiangnan. The short paper is slanted, dense and orderly, and it is neither fast nor slow. It describes the running lyrics, Xiao Chongshan , Yicaly Red , Yumeiren , Nian Nujiao...
describes the moonlight settles in a wall of flowers and shadows, in the sound of rain, meeting happily, and on the water bank of time, a clear heart.
write about misty rain and towers, hang a curtain of rain, and every thought, the lotus in the pond is made of paper, lotus is made of pen, draw your appearance.
writes the spring scenery in the garden, a branch of red apricot , every thought, the branches of cardamom, the peach blossoms on the human face, and the lovesickness of yours.
In the sparse shadow of the apricot blossoms, playing the flute until dawn.
Jiangnan is a devout refuge. You start from the silent old year, walk through a poem, walk a line, smoke and willows painted bridge, pass through a line, fallen plums like snow, pass through a line, black tiles and pink walls, meet a line, ten miles Yangzhou , read a line, twenty-four bridges, bright moon night.
Go to
to see some water, some plants, and sentences of green alleys all over the mountains. The wine flag at the entrance of Xinghua Village, walking leisurely, watching, crossing the small bridge, walking through the narrow alley, and then settled in the teahouse near the water, sitting opposite Jiangnan, and drinking a cup of tea.
Go and borrow a ray of moonlight, some flower shadows, listen to people traveling far away, and blow the lingering flute, just like bathing in the moonlight, falling on the petals on both shoulders, stepping on the light snow, living, walking, watching, joyful, but not worried about gains and losses.
In the twilight of childhood, I am a local accent that you forgot to take away; in the enthusiasm of youth, I am a poem you forgot to read; in the later stories, I am a moonlight that you forgot to embroider.
A person's life, at some point, sitting under the moon, the wind sways the bamboo sounds, and the moon shadow swims fish. Suddenly, he felt that his previous life was full of mountains and mountains, crossing mountains and ridges, and at the end, he turned a heart a thousand times, but it was like turning a page of a book. It was the wind blew away the clouds, the clouds took away a rain, and the rain wet a page of the alley.
The lonely and empty courtyard is about to be late, and the ground is full of pear blossoms and the door is not open.
will write for a period of time; will give the loneliness to the passing years.
Missing is a song of Qing lyrics given by time. You kiss the old time in the moonlight of the first stanza; I cook a pot of early spring tea in the misty rain in the next stanza.
Missing is a peach blossom blooming between your lips, a long thought on the short note of the sun and the moon, a most fragrant and affectionate strand in the ink, a poem dripping from fingers, the first line in the poem is the whole, the world.
is like the moonlight, and each wisp is moistened into the flowers; like mist and rain, and each wisp is moistened into the alleys in the south of the Yangtze River; like lovesickness, moist in a line of poems that are old when you pick up your pen; like old things, moist in the path that time gently walks through.
will tell you the beautiful wishes to every day, and will read a clean poem to a page of beautiful past.
The flowers bloomed for spring, the curtain rolled up for summer, the leaves fell for autumn, the snow fell for winter, the ink faded for life, making a ray of moonlight, falling on the wine cups under the monk's hut, curling in the shallowness in the courtyard, sprinkling in the old books in front of the window, wine became thin words, cool tunes.
Spring water is blue in the sky, the painting boat listens to the rain and sleeps
picks green water, and the tent is far away from spring.
Sit in front of the window, tea in the cup, a distant mountain, the spring water begins to green, and the spring grass begins to grow. It seems that the silk is decorated with colors and the landscape is vertical. I see the people in the painting, and I am just waiting for a tea picker to come.
The spring water is born, the spring forest is flourishing, and the spring breeze is ten miles away, which is not as good as you.
It seems that all the beauty choose to settle in this season, the feelings of the green branches of the deer grass, the feelings of the green branches of Qinsang, the feelings of listening to the rain in the small building, the feelings of selling flowers in the deep alleys, the feelings of flowers with flowers in the clothes, the feelings of the head full of apricot blossoms, the first taste of green wine, the taste of a small pillow and the fun of a small window.
The leisure place for poetry and books on the pillow is good, and the scenery in front of the door is good.
I was originally a idle person in the locust flower courtyard, full of alcohol. Sitting by the small pond, watching the fish, and raising eyebrows and living a life of fireworks.
It turns out that we are all poetic flower burialists in this world, with the feelings of falling flowers in the light rain, the expectation of tung flowers 0,000 miles away, and the melancholy of half the city of smoke and sand.
It turns out that we cannot cultivate the Bodhi fruit in the world. It always feels cool in a curtain of spring rain. Among the fallen flowers on the ground, lovesickness arises, and nostalgia in the curtain of flowers.
One-page poem draft, taken out of the drawer of the past, and there was a conversation outside the window Xiaoxue . I am fortunate. When you see someone, you suddenly feel the wind soft and your eyebrows. How beautiful it should be.
He is like the wind of apricot blossoms, blowing softly. You know, you are willing to treat each other with all your tenderness from now on.
Time is still there, and I have lost my years. The past is a thin and thin flower, one petal thinking, one petal soft intestine, one petal thoughts, one petal new sorrow.
When the weather was old, my light was thinner at that time. I wish someone would accompany you, sit in the past, accompanying the evening breeze, sunset, dusk; I watched the flying gulls, the distant water, and the clouds walked away.
Author: Shuiyue Lanxi, I wish to be the inkwagen washer by the pool of time. Time is soft and the seasons are common. I wish to pay tribute to the passing years with light ink. I wish to meet you between the lines.
