Wen * Bamboo (Dust and Rain)
When the wind blows, it perches outside my window! -Bamboo (dust rain)
The wind is blowing. ...
The wind is wandering outside the window, and the flute is rippling on the horizon.
The wind is blowing, who is smiling and sad in the wind?
When summer comes, the wind always stops and never stops. Maybe tired, maybe tired. That day, it stopped outside my window.
When the wind blows, sobs linger outside the window.
I quietly opened the window, and the wind, with a melancholy gesture, lightly squeezed into my hut. The long-lost heart lintel, like an ancient stream, has quietly opened. The wind, quietly blowing on the skin, slipped, leaving a word that hurt the petals. The time at your fingertips is also sad, pale with the helpless past in the fleeting time.
A sigh seems to come from me. Gently lifted a room of sadness, put the shadow of the wind in my heart, and began the dream of stained glass. On the horizon, the dusty songs in the falling flowers and drizzle were lifted, and the memories of those times were transferred to the emptiness in the deep heart.
The wind is blowing ... the wandering heart is blurred in the eyes of the wind ...!
Red beans are red. ...
I once sent a long red bean, which fell into the dust, but it was old and did not take root.
The faint red color of red beans has taken root and sprouted in the deep heart, tangled and grown, and revised their extended feelings like vines. "When those red berries come in spring, they flush on your southern branches. For me, take a hug home as a symbol of our love. " Recite a poem "Acacia" written by Wang Wei in the former Tang Dynasty, pick up the thoughts like red beans, ripple in the eyebrows with the lightness of the wind, and gently capture the attached eyes.
Embrace the fluttering wind with a hug posture, and let the wind gently slide over the skin, which is illusory like red beans blooming in the distance. In the wind, sighs moisten the words and phrases painted by shallow ink. Looking back, it turns into a thousand lovesickness. When planted in plain ink, red beans are born. In spring, it sends out a few branches, takes off a skirt and puts it in your heart for support. The coming year will be redder and the afterlife will be thicker.
The wind, unconsciously, took a deep breath with the acacia flavor of red beans, wandered in the depths of the soul, turned into a caring look, and lost my thoughts in the wind. Twist your dreams into poems and stroll along the colorful shore. The wind there blooms, the wind here thickens the leaves, and the wind there blows away my feelings.
Put the thoughts when the wind blows at the center of the soul, hold a bowl of Mengpo soup and linger on the acacia river. Red beans on the Acacia River are red and red. Give up Meng Po's soup! I only miss you on the sansheng stone, jump into the ever-flowing river of forgetfulness and suffer the pain of soul-frying. I will not come back, just wait for generations, thousands of generations, thousands of years, thousands of years of suffering, in the dust of red bean acacia reincarnation.
Concern, silent peristalsis in the lips, swaying in the heart. Looking at red beans, the figure in front of the diamond mirror has lost a trace, and the tide of missing is once again wandering in the shallowness of "the belt is getting wider and wider". Write down the sadness of acacia in the gentle and graceful shadow. In the years when fog and water are the same, let the quiet inner love shine with the luster of glass and wander in the shallow singing of time.
Pick a finger of red beans, sit alone in the porch window, infatuated with love, surge of emotion. Looking at the horizon, the stars are shining and the moon is in the sky. In the bright moonlight, a piece of acacia was portrayed as a melancholy shadow and deeply planted in my heart. At this point, I buried the flowery face and the bustling world, leaving only a shallow shadow in my dream, leaving this world only for the acacia of this red bean, leaving only a clear shadow, accompanied by a half-life dead lamp.
Once again, sing softly, "When those red berries come in spring, they blush on your southern branches." For me, take a hug home as a symbol of our love. " ……!
The wind is blowing, I miss it. ...
The wind is blowing, and the tears in my eyes are stung by the bright sunshine, but the sunshine is too strong, stinging my heart, stinging my tears and letting them flow out. This tear has become a clear spring of yearning, pure and beautiful, with the tenderness of dreams.
Clouds are floating with the silence of past lives. In the embrace of beautiful dreams, they cover a ray of sunshine jealousy, drive away a gentle homesickness and bear distant thoughts. Is it too far? It's just that my thin eyes can't bear so many worries, and my lovesickness is endless, and my feelings remain the same. Make a long love in the world of mortals, at the junction of night and night, watching the dim candlelight and singing the three-inch time of acacia. Alas, I can see that you also shed tears when you love. It hurts and is sweet.
On the horizon, who is playing the flute and who is playing the piano? Who played the sky blue misty rain?
Beside the waterside pavilion in the south of the Yangtze River, the coloured glaze shed tears of my missing. Your Jiangnan is misty and rainy, and my Mobei is misty and hazy in the desert. In the sand smoke in Mobei, you can't see the desolation under the shadow. In the pavilions in the south of the Yangtze River, I can't see my tearful eyes.
Spread out a plain language, when the wind blows, let my thoughts float in the distance of time and space, and let the lonely shadow fade in the pale fleeting years of my life.
Look at a yellowed smile and listen to the haggard when the wind blows. Faint lingering thoughts, constant cutting, and confusion, but in the west wind, drunk and weak in the tears of beauty, dancing hurt those sad eyes deep in my heart.
In the wind, I picked up a constant miss, smiled at the fate on the world of mortals, and repeatedly unscrewed the tears of Bai Yueguang's missing. Once, in the euphemistic melancholy under the night, I let the moon cut a painful mark for my thoughts. If it is as bright as summer flowers, I politely thanked the quiet and beautiful soft resentment.
On the horizon, I can smell a faint sigh, which is the yearning brought by the wind. I held it gently in my chest, printed it in my arms and engraved it on my heart. That's your face!