The cold dew is the time to stay, the face that falls, the place where the three thousand prosperous places are over, the rivers and mountains that are cool to the end, the wind is listening to the cicadas in the evening, and the quiet people are wandering. The dew falls from the

Cold Dew is the time to stay, the face that falls, the end of the three thousand prosperous places, the rivers and mountains that cool to the end, the wind listening to the cicadas and the quiet people who have not yet fallen asleep.

Dew falls from the tip of the grass, falling into the forehead, it is the wrinkles of time, falling into the palm lines, it is the background color of light and the blank space of time.

Cold dew, with a leaf, dripping with beauty; from a rain, cooled through the paper; a drop of ink, dyed the rain alley; a line of poetry was messed with thin eyebrows and cocoons.

The coolness of late autumn is the lonely sorrow in the pile of old papers, a fallen leaf, a stroke of falling leaves, a lovesickness, and a passing year.

Reed, Pipa , Qingshan, accidentally, was stained with sorrow in the clean sentence. The wind of sending letters traveled eight thousand miles, and the overlapping withered.

Only the original intention, never grow old.

"htmlFebruary 72 Monthly Order Collection " says: On September Day, the dew is cold and will condense.

There are three symptoms of cold dew: one is the geese coming to the guest, the second is the bird enters the water to make clams, and the third is the chrysanthemum has yellow flowers.

How many guests have not returned to the world, I have to go through the fence to see the autumn wind

The feet of time, walk out of the cool lines of poetry, how many colorful purples and so on, how many willows painted bridges, finally becoming the desolate smoke weeds, the desolate moonlight, and the broken past.

I just want to pick up my pen and write you a letter about the gentle weather, a little ink color; about the story of that year, a little windy atmosphere.

I just want to pick up my pen and write you a letter about the youth of white clothes and snow, and about that painful and sweet past.

The guests from the ends of the world, the wind falls on the fence, the flute at the clear night, the clock on the cold mountain, we always think of some people, some past events, the old days, and the coolness of the years on a fallen leaf.

Cold smoke, the moon, the cold dew, and the frost, we will always wear bright or dark moonlight in the rhyme of autumn, waiting for an old person who may come or not.

If the heart is facing autumn, the floating life is cool

shallow roads picking up autumn, the years are suddenly late, Qingshang Time sequence, grapes are full, time starts a new line, writing about the chapters of autumn, who writes, pages of thin and thin youth? Who is obsessed with, lines of poetry?

Past events are everywhere, people are silhouetted, a certain dusk, a certain sunset, a period of thinking, a point of coldness, a certain section of road, a certain street, a certain street intersection, a flash of back, always in your eyes.

Black tiles and white walls, old times, warm sun and yellow leaves, a line of poetry, autumn colors spread throughout the world, autumn falls in the heart. The reeds are green and the white dew turns into frost. Every thought is cool, and the coolness is in my heart.

Outside the window, the fingertips warmed the cool time, turn a page of books, warmed a pot of tea, the trees on the street are green and yellow, the people around you are coming and going, and you are still you, I am still me, only relying on myself, making a beautiful painting.

The fireworks are cool, the cool is the seventh chapter of the night; the cool silk is cool, the cool is the melancholy of the end of the years; the cool past is cool, the cool is the nostalgia of the near future; the cool life is cool, the cool is the sadness of the sparse rain pond.

It’s not that autumn is deep, do old friends think about each other?

Is there a gust of wind that can blow back to the past? Is there anyone who can hold hands and look at each other?

Every season is a letter sent from the depths of time. When you read it to the signature, even if there is snow in the thread and your fingers are old, you can still turn back pages of past events, stories deep in the flowers, memories of flowers blooming and leaves falling.

Time is deeper and deeper, old but not desolate, like the cool moon brings white dew, like the light rain falling in March, like a snow falling on the body, thin white; like a tree of plum blossoms, blooming in dusk, with a faint fragrance.

In the trance of the light shadow, time has become a short line. You sit in the corner of the past, watching the years fade away, the lanterns fall white, the vicissitudes of the eyebrow bend, the passing years have passed, and the years have been read thin, and the cold and plain sounds of the sounds and moonlights are covered with the cold and white sounds.

Half of the thin moon, a cup of light tea, lovesickness slanted, walked into the heart, and once, the place where the eyebrows were drawn, half a mirror, who pitys time to ride an iron horse, the autumn wind moves, and the guest loves old.

A person, in pairs of shadows, one person, sighing the wine again, one person, tastes the coolness of autumn, one person, pillows the darkness of the night.

This season of autumn, this period of worldly world, in the flowering events of the peach blossoms, I hope you understand: the time gone is a dream, and you can feel the tenderness of autumn nearby.

May time be kind, may you meet a past event with a low-key Prime Minister; to enjoy the daily life of fireworks; to cherish each other with a person with a pure heart and be happy in silence.

Author: Shuiyue Lanxi, I wish to be the inkswainer 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.