The passing years, the footnotes of time, the vicissitudes of time, there is always a page, the lines of poetry left by the wind, the out of context of love, the blue waiting in the misty rain, and the lovesickness in the autumn water poems.
Time rode a white horse, starting from the past, rising lovesickness into the bright moon, turning spring water into clear dew, running the black hair into white hair, running in front of you into the world, from the colorful flowers and blooming everywhere, to the end of the west wind falling leaves.
In November, the remaining flowers fall to the ground, the reeds at the fingertips, the end of late autumn, and the beauty of hiding in the early winter.
November, autumn is already dusk, new winter is coming, and all the final chapters are the past.
November, Dew is thick , lovesickness is light, fireworks are bustling, the world is full of, you say autumn rain in the sycamore tree, you say the night is slightly cool, you say the country is long, it is just a light year of floating and rising; you say the coldness of the years is just a swaying fragrance.
A leaf and a sound, called an autumn
I always like your tenderness, like the moonlight hanging on the branches; I always like your tenderness, like the dew hanging on the tip of the grass; I always like your tenderness, like the leaves falling on the streets.
It seems that after a rain, the deserted smoke caused vines and grass, the remaining mountains were accompanied by the remaining water, and the plain shadow was reduced; it seems that after a rain, time was dyed cold, my thoughts fell into waste, and life changed seasons.
Sun and moon on paper, years on fingertips, and the words are endless.
All the changing seasons are the steps of time, the new buds in February, the locust flowers in May, the first leaf in August, the gust of wind in November, the time walks, the vast and compassionate.
Meet time on a thin calendar; meet season in a shadow of reeds.
seems to be a silent memorial, to commemorate the crabapple before rain, to commemorate the spring event of snowing first, to commemorate the fragrant tea in the evening, to commemorate the passing years of grass on the road, to commemorate the cool wind and dew, to commemorate the clear autumn with the moon full of colors, to commemorate the tenderness and warmth of time, to commemorate the displaced thoughts, and to wandering past.
knows that there is drifting, after all, drifting, even if it is drifting, it will also feel that you are drifting
Late autumn can always give people a sense of drifting. The moss is cold and dew is heavy, and the shadows of flowers should be pity themselves, as if the loneliness is dissipated from the feast, as if the desolation of the night rain of the sycamore tree, as if the loneliness of the eastern fence is deeper, as if the melancholy dew is deeper.
After four seasons and years, has experienced vicissitudes, and turbid eyes are inevitable. In the end, there are sorrow and joy and calmness and openness. So whether it is the world or the love in the heart, there is probably a hero who is brave and never regrets his life.
Thoughts are the quiet clouds and water of a mountain, the swaying light and shadow of a wall, and a continuous road to old things. Following the direction of the water, in the direction of the light, step by step, tranquil, step by step, leisure, and walk into the old time slowly and happily.
Where time lives, the breeze stirs the past, the cool moon grows in white dew, the falling red covers the path, and the shadows of flowers blow through the old clothes.
is like a peony, blooming in the ancient meaning of Chang'an , drunk with a jar of wine, fragrant with the past, and with the ink, carrying the time of that year.
is like snow, graceful in the stone alley in the south of the Yangtze River, falling in front of the courtyard, falling on the body, the thin whiteness, causing the coldness, but it disappeared in an instant.
Years long, all seasons are safe
号 : What a difficult day, I will also produce a bowl of rice, a cup of tea, a bed, a beam of light, some love. I know I can live well in a corner of a lonely city.
Some people are the smoke and wafts of time; some things are the old lotus clothes in memories. But every time I recall it, it is still beautiful. Beauty lies in deep affection.
No matter how many vicissitudes are hard to get rid of, no matter how many worries are hard to get rid of, no matter how many worldly things are cold, no matter how many people are cold, I still love this world of fireworks.
A person, deep in the world, in the lonely corner of the city, desolate his heart, let poetry and scholars pass on the dust, let the years form cocoons, let the pen wither, and let the time fade away.
A person’s life is like delicate embroidery, every needle and thread is beautiful time, sweet pain, and beautiful thoughts.
A person's life is like a song of a colorful dress, graceful as a stunning geese, as gentle as a dragon, the song is about to end, and people are about to disperse. There is always a string, which is cool and warm; there is always a love, which is loved and hated.
November, time is shining cold, and the past is withering. May you wait for the snowflakes, Christmas trees, New Year fireworks, and a better self in the place where the years look back.
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.
