The bright moon, Canyuan, the water song, moistening the vicissitudes of life.
Title
You a light veil, bound by the sand of the wind who?
You have a light veil, and you have tied up the wind and sand.
A prosperous floating dream, the back of the stunning, for whom a wait is five hundred years?
A bunch of hot eyes, through five hundred years of looking back, through a thousand years of reincarnation, but the wrong encounter, you in the smoke and rain, I am in the smoke and rain outside, open and fall, fall and open;
I sat in front of the Buddha for five hundred years, just to wait for a blooming meet, but missed the most beautiful period of blooming flowers,
Smoke and rain in the south of the river, Jiangnan's smoke and rain, why is it always a little bit of a rhinoceros, but it is always a little bit of a rhinoceros, it is always a little bit of a rhinoceros. I missed the time, wet eyes red;
The dark fragrance floating, sparse shadows across the slanting, you cut the candles in the west window of who? Thin paper window, peach blossom fell in search of fragrance, residual license red makeup.
The night rain in Jiangnan, who rose the autumn pool? Jiangnan's smoke red, propped up the dust of who, lingering sadness? The rhythm of the heart, curling heavenly music. The first thing you need to do is to get a good deal of money to pay for the work you do.
The encounter in the Broken Bridge, I came from the depths of the floating dust, the moment the moonlight interlaced, the hustle and bustle of the bustle, in the back of the receding; your tenderness, the water ripples, the blue wave ripples, swings of my millennium of the heart embankment; back to the shallow smile, the plain color of the flow of the years, your face in the city of my ten thousand purples and thousands of reds will never grow old.
Ink traces collected, word withered and thin, Acacia drifting down, yellow flowers thin; that a touch of autumn red, leaving me endless inseparable and reminiscence
Reed reed like snow on the other side of the shore, you, light veil dance, lotus step lightly move, from the Qinhuai thousand years of the umbrella shadow of the past; I am in the green lamps and yellow scrolls in the feathered into a butterfly, through your blue sky and white clouds, through the lotus pond of your fresh water sweetuma, wings a curtain of dreams;
That the Broken lampshades, that blotting ` appendage, is you hidden behind the firewood, rice, oil and salt, a river of spring water of light sadness. I am in your millennium porcelain inkstone in the blue flowers, in the smoky riverside blossom and fall. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do this, but I'm going to be able to do it. Spring blossoms in the text, the flow of the year whisked frost marks, drowned out the poetry and song of the cold, warm pillow heart.
Those fine heart glow of the splendor, loaded with your heart, rippling my heart; back to the shore, to find that stranger's clear spring. I don't know who's green vine around your door, I don't know who's colorful butterflies stopped in your heart, hand raised and fell, fell and raised. The rain and smoke of the meridian wheel, bearing the breeze in the remaining sound of the wandering.
A light mist, the other side of the green smoke curls. The wind and sand of memory, blowing up my cool eyes.
Juice a cup of your limpid smile of tenderness, ghostly yet deep, refreshing and far-reaching; your sentence of the afterlife, empty of whose city? The first time I saw you, I was in the middle of the night, and I was in the middle of the night. Autumn, in the love of goose yellow time to come, have not had time to send away the paper red, mixed in the first warm and cold wind, let the autumn rain wantonly cold;
That a touch of the next world, who promised the soft fragrance of the next life, in a touch of love in the silent feeling of meeting and acquaintance with the other part of the sadness of the parting of the heart? The depths of the heart of the Court of the remnants of the red, but there is no way to margin shallow margin light, loose flow in the dense ties, looking at the late encounter smile, Xu how it is the clamor also can not take away the singing in the heart of the window of a few points of the fragrance.
Perhaps, the encounter is a frostbite prose, sadness and lingering, hazy and beautiful;
Perhaps, the hand holding a thousand red, only the lost that most beautiful, perhaps, in a thousand favor, only a hundred feet of the most colorful of the ice;
A lifetime of obsessive guarding a million things, the world did not turn back; people such as the old, the night is not yet over, the plain paper lightly show, love Run pen, neon dresses wrapped up in the sea!
If the encounter is a color, then your encounter with me is that light golden, with the vicissitudes of things are not the same, blooming in the reincarnation of the warp beam, ferrying in the red dust, silent and bleak;
The paper wind, sparse rain; the lamp, the incense; all the way to the wind and rain, drenched in my desire to talk about the despair of the rest of the world. There is no place to put the memory, in the depths of the flashy, by the hustle and bustle of the world annihilated the shallow footprints, overlapping dreams, night and day in the pillow moist and loving.
A night of rain and clouds, the heart of the matter less who. The fragrance of the bone-crushing incense with a little sadness, dancing with a little beauty, shallow and light set in my bone cavity of the heart.
When you left, love finally became a wound, bleak pith, sadness wore the three life stone on the shallow smile, although still still bright, but no longer let people tired of burning; although still with warmth, but less a rib to also melt.
The past is dazzling, chaotic flowers gradually desire the old dream, vow in the heart of the wall slipped on the slope. In the red dust ferry Penny, fond of who a white veil, the heart of a fluttering? Misty song. Whose call is it? Penetrating the floating dust shear gaze, the memory of the fall of a moment of thinning, it turned out to be nothing more than a wisp of dust and smoke sadness.
At the end of the dream, it is not possible to understand the past life. The water of the West Lake is cool, cool for a thousand years. In the increasingly imminent flow of years, once met, a barren.
Spring is back. The first time I saw this, it was a very good time for me to go back to the office. Your sedan chair, fell in front of whose door? When you walk by helplessly, behind the withered petals, do you know
That is my broken heart.
The paper window shadow, light ink, green shirt; red dust ferry, waiting for a world of spring flowers