Listen to the song, and the flowers are all over the sky. Mo Dao’s clothes followed the wind, and he only smiled at the flowers, and the paper was long. Love falls on the tip of the pen, tired. In front of the rain window, slightly cool. Green mountains and hidden clouds, the breeze is alone, and between the eyebrows, a little cinnabar tears.
After all the red dust calamities, look down on the red dust edge, the end of the world, looking back, a lone lamp. Flowers are drunk and tears, and flowers are broken; The edge is scattered, and the edge is empty. Meeting you in this life is my most beautiful fate, how many affectionate pasts, turned into a faint sadness, flowing into a babbling stream, gathering into a bitter sea. The sea, profound and vast, broad and vast, who knows his suffering?
Tonight sleepless, let the cold rain, beat the flat rhyme feet, gently walked, the street where the wind once lived. The sound of rain outside the window is gurgling, and there is a lone lamp in the window. Lonely thoughts, hurt the rain, hurt the flowers. Kneel quietly before the Buddha, quietly pick up, that drop, Buddha tears.
A casual turn is the end of the world. A casual look back, that is, between the eyebrows, can not be driven away, extinction and survival. How many red dust old things, bear to let the streamers down. Fate turns a thousand times, love is like fireworks, and the moment of brilliant bloom, it is doomed to disillusionment. Ren Ai crossed the firmament, in the smoke and rain of the southern country, in the faint sound of water, holding a small umbrella with broken flowers, walking through, bluestone alleys, hearing the childlike voice of selling apricot blossoms.
The ancient wooden door opened gently, the begonia was still there, the bluestone table and chairs were still there, where had the woman who sat alone by the window and drank alone against the moon? Condensed eyes, cold smoke and grass, residual sun like blood, dripping ink into wounds. Who sings a cappella in the distance? Thousands of miles away from the clouds and mountains, thousands of miles away from the smoke and rain: “Outside the long pavilion, by the ancient road, the grass is blue.” The evening breeze blows the sound of the willow flute, and the sunset is outside the mountain. The end of the sky, the corner of the earth, the half-fragmented life of acquaintances is rarely a happy gathering, only parting more. Outside the long pavilion, on the side of the ancient road, the grass is blue. Ask Jun when he will go, and Mo wanders when he comes. The end of the sky, the corner of the earth, the acquaintance is half scattered; A glass of cloudy wine is all over the day, don’t dream cold tonight. ”
Since ancient times, red faces have been thin, and lovers have become diseases. The moon is cold, tears are shining with fresh breeze, and flowers and flowers are blooming countless times.
A sketch, quiet time, Ren Shi’s toes, gently walking through the black and white years, leaving a place of silence. Time and space flow, the origin and extinction, the depth of the edge is shallow, it is just a floating dream. Life is short, such as morning dew, when the sun comes out, the dew dies. Pluck the whiteness of a moonlight, clip it into the scroll, and let it illuminate the mottled verses. Love, no words are needed, a glance is enough; Love, there is no need to tell, one thought is enough. Leave the warmth of your heart. There are countless sunsets in life, there have been countless sunrises and mountains, only turning heroic pride into a heavenly sword, a dragon slaying knife, cutting thousands of miles of clouds and mountains, and the sky is clear.
Gently close your eyes, touch your cheeks, touch the temperature of your palms. Dreamy like fog, drifting away with the wind. Is there any way to warm the heart? Let the heart be careless? The cold moon shines on a thousand rivers, and the thousand rivers are cold and cold. Sentimental, is a piano that has been played for many years, reincarnation in the red dust ferry, that slender jade finger, where is the Yiren? The clouds make the moon, the flying stars spread hatred, and they are infinite regrets in the world. Who has not hate? Who has no regrets in life? Only the heart full of holes remains, like the waves beating the tide sound hole, day and night, like Brahma singing.
Is it really not hurting? Is it really put down? Is it really no complaints? Dew drops into the flowers, little by little, are all whispers of love.
“When you’re young, if you fall in love with someone, be sure to be gentle with her, no matter how long or short you have been in love. If you can always be gentle with each other, then all moments will be a flawless beauty. If you have to separate, say goodbye and thank you in your heart for giving you a memory. When you grow up, you will know that in the moment you look back, the youth without resentment will have no regrets, like the quiet late moon on the hill. ”
Youth without complaint, life without hatred, heart without traces, the waves rush to the beach, bringing deep and shallow footprints, which is just you? Which is just me? Only a sea of blue, a pool of white seagulls.
Thank you for having you in this life, thank you for the beautiful flowers, green grass, cool wind, indifferent clouds, thank you for the years, thank you for the wind and rain. I don’t want to think about it anymore, I don’t want to remember it anymore. the hand of the wind, caressing the face of the flower; The tears of the clouds, spilled into the heart of the lake.
The fingers of the night, brushing through the silky years, amorous notes, dancing. Every past is softly groaned. The moonlight is soft, the dark fragrance is coming, drunk on the distant mountains, and lowered his eyebrows. The wind spreads its wings and flies slowly, flying into the depths of time. The heart, left in the wind, can no longer be found.
Butterfly dance bushes, when tired, tired? The wind blows white clouds, when did it come, go? Tonight, there are no flowers blooming, only dark incense floating. Frog drums, chickens chirping, yes, today is tomorrow. There is no artistic conception of “chicken sound Maodian moon, human track Banqiao frost”, but the ethereal spirit of “Tianxin Moon is full”. Looking out the window, the lights are still brilliant and the neon is out. The night was quiet, so quiet that I could hear my heartbeat. The words beat with poetic romance, and the heart is extraordinarily peaceful, frank, and clear. It’s a kind of indifference, a state of mind. Love does not come and go, love does not increase or decrease, and the heart is like not moving.
The breeze is blowing, the moonlight is shining, and there are many pleasant scenery in life, and singing and walking, and seeing and appreciating. The deep night, the shallow moon, the gentle morning breeze, and the kind heart all gathered together to form the warmth of the heart. A book, a cup of tea, a song of cloud and water Zen, let the trace of Zen, melt into life, grow quietly in the bottom of the heart. The lotus seed planted in the early years also took root and sprouted in the bottom of the heart, quietly blooming into a white lotus flower, smiling brightly under the moonlight.
The years are abundant, but fate is very skinny, red dust ferry, I abandoned the boat, lost the oars, you don’t come, I don’t go, just here, quietly waiting for you. Cut time into distant mountains and smoke, silent and joyful. On a plain note, write earthly fireworks. The thickness of the years, the sorrows and joys of the years, in the pen, review over and over again. In this life, just to meet you, I have abandoned the scripture scroll, thrown away the prayer cylinder, turned the mountains and waters, and pasted step by step into your warmth. I just want to be relatively speechless with you, with low eyebrows and dark sleeves. At the moment of heartbeat, I fell back into reincarnation.
All the way, all the way, if you are well, it will be a sunny day. One brush with shoulders, one look back, is enough. The silent lake of the heart will no longer make waves. Instant is eternal, one flower and one world, tired emotions, shallow moon, next reunion, where is it? How many winds and snowy tales, air-dried, and wet. Withdrawn, born again. Love is like smoke and rain, love is like spring grass, spring goes to spring, and countless lives and deaths.
The past is faint, the morning bell and the twilight drum, and the fireworks of the world cannot be awakened. The sunshine is still there, the years are still the same, the pink is still the same, but it has long been different. “In this gate last year today, people’s faces were red. People don’t know where to look, but Peach Blossom is still smiling at the spring breeze.” The encounter that was once devoted to is already in the depths of the clouds, only the time of getting thinner, the bones become the mountains and waters in the heart. Is it the landscape of the Mi father and son of the Song Dynasty? Or Wu Changshuo’s smoke rain? It is also profound, far-reaching, more profound.
Green silk lock, lock green silk, green silk three thousand, love three lives. Say a word of love, too heavy; A word of preciousness, too gentle. “I like the gentleness of the bowed head the most, like the shyness of a water lotus flower beating the cool breeze”, Shayanara! Goodbye, never again!
How much love, short-lived; How much love, over the eyes. You forgot to remember, I forgot to forget, the swallows outside the window murmured, another dawn. The sky is blue and quiet, and black and white clouds cover the sky. Summer, still green. Have the lotus flowers in the field bloomed? From a distance, it’s just a green and light green.
Or that pair of old-time swallows? Drunk acquaintance, warm words, fade streamers. It’s green fat red thin again! Who is singing a cappella with locked eyebrows, Yangguan song. A little innocence, a little obsession, why is the drizzle? Do not drown. Since the wind and the moon are over, there is no word to ask the sky.
I really want to be a dandelion, fluttering with the wind, scattering with the wind, sending me by the wind, straight to the green clouds… Dust to dust, earth to earth, return to the embrace of Mother Earth, return to nature, forget everything. “The end of the sky, the corner of the sea, the acquaintance is half scattered!” The flower qi is chaotic and calm, and he is soft-spoken, and the old dream is long. Love cannot be hidden, and I don’t know why.
I just want to be so quiet, sitting in front of the window, letting the bright moon enter my heart, and the breeze is in my arms. Quietly sip the tea, create some beautiful words, and write some emotions that do not know the point of return. I really want to be so quiet, carry the beauty to the end, and when I get old, I can still pick up beautiful poems, read beautiful stories, and the mood that fills the story with smoke. Whether it is sad or happy, whether it is successful or not, it has nothing to do with gains and losses, whether it is desolate or gorgeous, plain or cold. Simple, indifferent, spend a quiet and beautiful time.
I like clean sketches, oil paintings with snow as a background, I like to look at on the picture, listen to a Buddhist song, slowly let go, and save my soul. There are always many things in life, and with the passage of time, one by one, they grow old one by one, become memories, and become clouds and mountains. Only the eyes of the affectionate gaze in the memory, the youthful face, like a peach blossom, has never aged and is still drunk and beautiful.
Try to drink boiled water into a kind of beauty, try to turn the plain into beautiful poems, try to use deep or light brushstrokes, to record the passing years that slowly pass away and never return, like a thin thread of gold thread, strung together like pearls scattered past. Always in other people’s poems, read their own tears, all the love in the world, is roughly the same, all the stories in the world, the beginning is mostly gorgeous, the ending is mostly bleak.
Remember the shadow of the crane in the cold pool, but reflected in the water, it is his own figure. Frozen love, snow hidden love, when loneliness comes, tenderness becomes soft pain, bursts, like waves, slowly rushing to the shore. Butterflies are venomous and beautiful; Love is toxic and addictive. Seeing flowers in the fog is also drunk, and fishing for the moon and moon in the water is also charming. Rain beats plantain to provoke patina, study ink, write, draw a picture of ink danqing, in the depths of the flowers, dot your eyebrows.
The man said: “Cigarettes fall in love with matches and are destined to be hurt; Fish fall in love with cats and are destined to be eaten. The woman said: “Woman, don’t live like a cigarette, let people light you when they are bored, and flick you off when they finish smoking… Remember, you have to live like drugs, either you can’t give it up, or you can’t afford to provoke it…” Looking at the snow falling, the green shirt disappears; Looking at the red dust, rolling, between the eyebrows, a little cinnabar tears, a tear through the heart, it is always difficult to avoid. Chaotic clouds, cold waves, whispering, raising eyebrows, unrepentant business. Looking at the end of the world, Ande leaned on the sky to draw the sword, the sword broke the rivers and mountains, and regained the way back. With you in the song prosperous, in the dream fireworks, on the side of the bridge, low eyebrows whispered.
“Vain dreams are faint, let the world come and go, know a little, and hurt yourself with affection.” Who does the song cloud: “Jinghu Cui slightly low clouds, beautiful people in front of the tent secretly draw eyebrows.” Who is asking Jun Hu if he does not return, this love is just fireworks broken, love parting from the wine to pour a thousand cups, shallow Zhu Yan sleep. How to follow the light cold and twilight, this past years of sorrow, only said that this life should not regret. Shanshan Yan went and went back again, the blossoms bloomed for no reason, just owed whom, a drop of cinnabar tears. ”