The first break in the rain, the wind is quiet and idle, who in the paddle of the year in the shadow of the lamp, drink the years.
Spring deep day warmth, light and shadow mottled, the sun through the gap in time, will be a wind warm, dipped in the earth. Light and shadow will be years of deep hidden, without trace, catalyze the prosperity of the fall of the wind flow, with the water far away, but can not see the end of the sun, whether there is a flower mound, to stay in this world of cold and warm.
The light of the day, thoughts lingering, rain, but bear to leave, in the cold fire, with a pot of tea, memories as the green leaves, slowly blotched in the water, vivid years.
Perhaps, the search for thousands of mountains, are for the shore of the moorings, return, in the silence of the smoke of the sunset, in the story of the years.
The human world has never been disappointed, only the grass and trees, inclusive of all the return, but also all the good parting.
Greedy for the years decorated with the prosperity of the world, such as spring, beautiful flowers; such as the summer night, the breeze; such as the autumn water, dusty; such as the winter snow, dark shadow dark afternoon; such as the red dust, the heart of the dye incense; such as the flow of the year, gentle compassion.
Some people in the season mottled light, counting the passing years; some people in the time of the waterfront, picking up the past moments; some people in the wet green stone alleys, memories of the old dream of the distant past.
How much love, in the flow of time in the stunning, how many past events, and in the red dust scattered. The first thing you need to do is to get a good deal of money to pay for the services you need.
The night is like water, bright lights, between dreams and waking up, separated by a curling waterfront, memories of the footsteps of miscellaneous disorder, like the wind whisked over the desk, paper and ink messy, flow through the spring and autumn.
Those were rinsed by the moonlight of the past, jumping on the black and white keys, flow, dance in the dawn before the arrival of a new song, whether it is about desolation, or joy, with the expectation.
Spring flowers, is the warmth of the heart; years, is the coolness of the fingertips. The years have dulled the memories, the floating world is desolate past, the sun will be pursued by the shadow of the elongation, you are destined in the past life, but also the scenery of this life.
Some people, a hundred turns, trekking through the mountains, but only to the dead wood burning my head full of gray hair, after years of separation, and then no prosperity. It's hard not to borrow a pot of wine, the regret hate soaked, drink bitter, strangled tenderness, get a drop of tears of lovesickness, a sentence of the ancient words.
Some people, unexpected encounter, hand woven on the concentric knot, but do not know the prosperity of the dream is fragile, the time old silent, all the lights out of the search, all the spring steam and autumn taste of the fragment, but a long time of greed, the flower things on the scene, the flower things fall, floating life as a dream, for the joy of geometry.
Some people, Lian Li branch, don't have a hate, in vain, that was stranded in time, there has been a blue water, the end of the world's infatuation with the encounter, there is also a gradual pale withering. In the end, it turns out that all have, in the end is to lose.
Falling flowers, willow deep green, spring is twilight, lonely court, outside the door of the willow flowers fly, eyebrows cut spring mountain Tsui.
In the cycle of flowing water and falling flowers, time for the story to continue a perfect ending; rolling smoke in the old dream, the years of life is also an ancient unchanging lyric.
Just other people's stories, after all, can not dye their own sadness and happiness; light of the clutch, we are just a hasty passer-by, the vicissitudes of roaming through time.
Who has passed by my stranger's wind flow, the time of the city; who is careful to take care of my fingertips new cool, eyebrow frost. The years are a poem of tears, in the ups and downs of life, gradually yellow, gradually pale.
We met, like a stranger in the springtime, the lotus wind blowing water, osmanthus fragrance, snow fall heaven and earth, according to the season, according to the season and fall. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on a new one, and you'll be able to do that.
The time broken, the flow of years withered, the city of that year, fell in whose moonlight cup?
Years, is a stranger to the wind warm spring, is a speechless autumn red, but also flowing water in the light of the plum blossoms; both the style of the lush, but also the cycle of the four seasons in the haste of the leaf fall.
Time is very short, the end of the world is very far, this world, any place, can grow, any place, are the home.
The years rush forward, in the end we wasted time, or time wasted us?
If the past is destined to be just a disappointment, I do not have to go back to the distant yesterday and sad. In the cool of a cut of moonlight, in the calm of the day, light clouds and water, the rest of the life.
The beautiful heart, drying in the warmth of the sun; the old story, screened in the shadow of the lamp paddle shadow; the loss of grief, grazing in the wilderness of time.
Waiting for you to return to the red dust, wash the body full of frost, the boat to listen to the moon, the attic to see the rain, do not dye the dust, do not fall from the sadness. The flow of the year gently rolled up the breath of the dream, the ancient sandalwood-colored space, serene thoughts in the twilight through.
Fine smell of time, drink lightly years, see the floating clouds blowing as snow, taste the world flavor boiled into tea.