Staying in Spring
The yellow warbler cries, the green willow brushes the ground. The world is a cloud of smoke? The results are a glittering halo? All of them are as light as water, as clear as smoke.
This spring, is the last time we meet as students. The first time I saw this, I was in the middle of a conversation with a man who had been in the middle of a conversation with a woman. Sometimes, how I wish time would stop at a certain moment, no need to go back, do not pass. It's not just because the scenery at that moment is the most beautiful. I'm not sure if you're going to be able to get a good deal on a new one, but I'm sure you're going to be able to get a good deal on a new one.
Swallows and warblers, cherry blossoms. "Watching the flowers bloom and fall in front of the garden, and enjoying the clouds rolling in the sky." Sitting in a corner at the end of the season, thoughts flow with the dizzy time, the wall of thought also climbed the memory of the years, the memory of the scene of the spring rhyme, warm and skillful, moist and soft. Pursuing a warm dream trip, walking against the road, turning the season back and forth, who can not change the outline of the past. But you can look back, those who have waded through the water, climbed the mountain, walked the road, as usual, the indentation of my footsteps, witnessed my experience. I'm not sure how much I'm going to be able to do this, but I'm sure I'll be able to do it, and I'm sure I'll be able to do it.
Is it necessary to keep this spring to be good? Of course, she is the most beautiful, the most fragrant, but the seasons, no one can change. The rotation is the season, unchanged is the season of the good years. Spring comes and goes, and flowers bloom again. Retrospective memory stream, there are a few past events still in front of us? The laughter of childhood has gone? Is the childish talk of childhood gone? What has replaced it? Is it a piece of headache test paper? Is a serious academic problem? Can not stay this spring, can not stay our childhood?
From the beginning of the school year, this spring is not that "lonely empty court spring, pear blossom full of not open the door" spring. She symbolizes the track of the elementary school, symbolizes the new beginning of each semester, symbolizes the ......... She is an umbrella, catching the figure of the first spring trip, the excitement of the first place in the sports meeting, the laughter of the art week ......... But she quietly hid herself with the opening of the graduation countdown clock, no one could find, and she left no trace.
She had drifted with the rustling rain, walking with the soughing and wind. She has weathered countless storms, and only time is the final destination, her bleak eyes in our endless confusion quietly passed away .........
Can not stay is the last spring of graduation, stay, is in the bottom of the hidden heart of the memory of that joyful warmth.
Smell the cicadas
I want to look back, looking for spring memory umbrella. But the noise of summer has exhausted me.
I have to say, that the noise of the cicadas, I really can not stand. Night quietly, this shows a unique quiet, who knows that the cicadas and quietly on the branch, this hot summer, the first time I heard the cicadas outside the window.
"Snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort, snort" A sound, a sound, tearing. In any case, I still can't figure out what kind of power makes cicadas chirp so much in such a bitter season, and what kind of expectation makes cicadas forget the earthly torment, and even end their fluttering life in such a way?
Cicadas do not understand the sadness of cicadas. But for a season, they go from this tree to that tree, chirping here and there, week after week, until they die. There is no fixed stop, or maybe - every stop is the end; or maybe, it's just that I don't understand. I have never understood a cicada, I have never understood, that a sad song, originally is this delicate creature to the world of a hundred, can not do anything about the attachment. However, even if the favor so what, it can not escape the arrangement of heaven, can not avoid the destiny of reincarnation. How many helplessness, in front of the false position? I don't know, I don't know.
The same sadness, the same helplessness.
I stared at a bright moon outside the window, in this bright moonlight, how do I recall the story lost in the wind? And how am I to recall the golden cicada molting in this silent countryside? And the cicadas, and how noisy a lifetime, in the last long song, by the sand annihilation?
In the end, only sigh, the forest flowers thank the spring red, too hasty.
But in any case, I have to admit, the cicada has the cicada's life. It is a dream, a mirror? This has nothing to do with me as a person. There are some misfortunes that are predestined.
Everything that can be grasped is gone. But why is it that the ones that have passed away are still floating in the wind in front of us? The living cicada, relentlessly talking about the loneliness of the night, but it will know? Many of the world's sorrows and joys, in this dead black night, careless, will also be all buried, just like their lives.
I closed my eyes, for those dead cicadas, silence. If there are no lonely souls in heaven, can the cicadas also cease to chirp in solitude from now on, and wait for the next beautiful spring with all the living beings?
Bitter summer, parting hearts. A short season to make people heartbroken, with maple leaves like the fiery red stump, low in the cicada - chanting goodbye! Suddenly looking back, the breeze is separated by the missing corner of the sunset. This is really that fleeting season, the river anglers silent, silent alone on the landscape of heaven and earth, lights like points, water like smoke.
When wisps of golden light projected through the thick clouds, I know, another sleepless night. But did not notice, when the cicadas outside the window stopped chirping, when the wind drifted away from the branches and leaves ......
Toward the autumn dew
The coolness is valiant, and the red maple falls to the ground. What an autumn it was! So beautiful that it only left a vague shadow in my mind.
Stripped of paint benches adhering to the years and years, the gazebo's colorful plum green leaves witnessed how much time? The morning light sprinkled on the desk, the faint golden light for the desk coated with a layer of beautiful gold, it with the rising sun and colorful, red sun sinking and dull. Why do you always have to attach the bright side to others? It's like leaving your fate in the hands of others! A chance to enjoy the dew let me can not help but a million feelings.
Walking alone in that jungle, just after a rain, everything seems so natural and cozy. A gust of autumn wind, without warning appeared, the autumn leaves without pity from the treetops pulled down, but also broke the peace of my heart. The yellow autumn leaves in the air fluttering, hopelessly scattered with the wind, how lonely and helpless. A burst of annoying autumn wind, blowing up the beauty of autumn, the sadness of autumn, as if this is blown down by the autumn wind leaves, left behind in the once lotus season? Treetops trembling slightly, dew drops with the yellow leaves rustling down, as if a colorful autumn rain. After a while, the rain stopped, leaving the ground full of fallen leaves, crystal dewdrops and dumb me. Sitting on the lintel in mid-autumn, watching the geese coming from the north circling down in the dusk sky, the one that swept over my head, is it still an old acquaintance? Can they still find the branches where they used to roost last year? The geese passed by without a sound, a trace of melancholy crossed the bottom of my heart. Without realizing it, the head of the crow hangs slightly. The crystal dew flow in the yellow leaves, quiet, hear the sound of eyelashes fluttering.
The dew is colorful. There is the withered yellow of the leaves, the blue of the sky, my cheeks and its own translucence. In the dew against the light, autumn is cooler, the heart of a trace of melancholy and a few faint sadness also lingers. No wonder Wei Yingwu said, "The jade dew wilts the maple forests, and the Wushan Mountain and Wuxia Valley are in a state of depression". Dew itself is colorless, it is next to what color is what color, if the bright and colorful is just, if it is accidentally flowed into the unknown and bad place, it is not in vain waiting for the sun will steam melt it? Finally turned into a trace of invisible rain smoke, floating into the air with the clouds? I can't help but shake my head in horror, the fate of the dewdrops is a wake-up call - don't be influenced by the environment, be the truest and most sincere self. Who says the autumn wind comes without a shadow? The fallen leaves on the ground are their traces. Who says that the dewdrop is as gorgeous as a flower? It is but clinging to the scenery of others, steamed and melted into a wisp of clouds after .........
The sound of the wind blowing the falling leaves once again gently brushed from the ears, interrupting this stretch of a hair of uncontrollable thoughts. Who reads the west wind alone cool? When the withered leaves fall, the remnants of the sun does not come out, the dew drops into rain and smoke, floating to the sky.
The morning light is still sprinkled, gazebo Yanmei unchanged. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on a new one, and then you'll be able to get a new one.
Winter snow
Winter, after the fall of the autumn leaves. In the summer, the flowers and leaves of the lotus pond, at this time there are only roots of the dead tube, a piece of the residual leaves. The first time I saw this, I was in the middle of the night, and I was in the middle of the night. Cold wind blowing in the ear, as if quietly talking about the beauty of the past, but also as if gently secretly weeping with the decline of today. And then look up to see the past lush green trees. Only dry branches, monotonous color. Where there is the soft shadow of the autumn wind? There is only the cold wind that sweeps across the sky.
The sky began to snow. At first, just a few pieces of symbolic fall, not long, the snow is more and more big, like goose feathers, light and slow to fall, fluttering, fluttering, like the heavenly maiden scattered jade leaves and silver flowers, so crystalline, so beautiful. Gradually, the pine needles, covered with a thin layer of white frost; that deciduous tree branches are plated with a layer of uneven snow, like a strain of alabaster carved trees; willow silver silk fluttering, bushes have become a white coral thickets, a thousand forms, it is confusing. The earth wrapped in a layer of silver, want to be isolated from the world. But people are busy.
I was wearing a bright red scarf, wearing a thick down jacket, towards this piece of ice and snow, deep a shallow piece of footprints are traces of winter. It records the laughter of winter, want to save in countless years. But the years are relentless, as this winter, this sky snow. Always go and come again, come and go without a snowflake with a wisp of clouds; always melt and condense, there is no snow water, a pile of snow. What is there? Is a cold and lonely heart in the winter? It with the snow condensed, with the snow water flow away? If not, then why not go after, after the footprints of the years, young enthusiasm? That a frank and simple heart, into snow water, into the unknown sky?