We are about to graduate, my brothers and sisters will smile and cherish our last time together, collect our every smile, collect our every word, collect all of us together. People have feelings, and I don't know if I'll be sad to part with them the day we do. My heart belongs to them, slowly, I lie in bed really do not dare to think about it, "the world is not willing to disperse the feast", good together and goodbye.
Although some people say that lovers love seven points, but also this seven points is enough to make the inner panic, fear of instantaneous death in, I do not have a complete heart of the efforts of love, quietly away! You still see me in the cold, the occasional smile back, will also become a luxury, smile at you, purely polite dark wound, I'm such a heart and lungs to give, but in exchange for that just once in a while look at each other and speak, hold hands and walk through ...... However, the heart of more than a soulful love affair sheepishly!
In the mist backlight of the current year, the curtain rolled west wind, summer lotus fragrance overflow, the most beautiful things of the heart open in the soft tresses. The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on a new car, and then you'll be able to get your hands on a new car. This life is just like into the surprise child blossoms, flowers bloom for a hundred days, the beginning of the end of the splendor. A street dark fragrance, just floating who? A curtain of dreams, the moon by the rail looking at who? A year of flowers, the fragrance far away benefit clear who? Whose wait coincides with the blossoming of flowers? Whose eyes are looking back, and whose lights are shining? The first thing you need to do is to make sure that you have a good understanding of what you are doing and how you are doing it.
Teacher, your face and smile, your hands and feet, often shown in front of my eyes; your care, love and care, has been lingering in my mind; your good guidance, teaching, so far, remember in my heart; you and we together with all the things that are like yesterday in my mind. Teacher, you gave me the confidence to learn; you gave me the courage to live, you gave me the motivation to work hard, you gave me the hope of running to a good future.
The flower tea in the hand has cooled, there are two pieces of petals off in the cup, thin, soft, like some memories, dry, and then how to soak, are not swollen up, floating in the water, immersed. People say tea is bitter? I don't know if I'm drinking bitter tea? Or is the tea itself bitter? I don't know how many people's dreams have been shattered by this smoky rain? How many people have not been reborn after the rain?
Time, take you into my life, bring me to my world. Sunset fell in the afterglow of the lake seedlings reflection, we together weave a garland of happiness. That year, picking the light and shadow of the teenage years, we wandered in the time of youth. That year, we counted the happy footprints together and lived a carefree life. If time can be stayed, really hope to live in that period of time for the rest of our lives.
It was fast! Time shuttle in our youthful years as if we have forgotten about how we will have a beginning and how an end. Thank you for letting us meet together, thank you for letting us become an irreplaceable part of each other's lives.
It is always so much to think of you, so so much to think of you, can you hear my miss?
Always think of you so much, think of you so much, can you hear me miss? I searched desperately in the sun's back, looking for your familiar figure. A hundred turns of searching finally embraced with you under the tree full of poplar acacia flowers. You are like a star that never falls in the night, always shining so brightly.
A mother's hands are a family's life, a paradise for her children, containing divine infinite love. I stroked and scrutinized my mother's hand, and a fierce stream of warmth passed from my mother's hand to me, warm and sweet, as if my whole person lived in the palm of my mother's hand, living under the sunshine of my mother's care. However, through the mother's hand, I do not seem to read the mother, my young heart, can not sense the hearts of adults.
"Gazing at this moment of rosy spring, still like then the warmth of the mold, I cut the long hair and stayed up beard, once the pain are with the wind, but I feel is so sad, the years left me deeper confusion ......" Rising Sun Yanggang's The voice is cold and hoarse, mixed with a hint of hysterical shouts, these two unimpressive MAN, standing on the stage, venting emotions, despondency and hardship, plight and hope!
If, the old times meet again, who will still remember the bits and pieces of those years? Under the dandelion, our agreement became pale. Those years, those past events, those missed once, in the long river of memory ripples. Unconsciously, the night quietly descends, facing the whole world's hustle and bustle, but a blank. I don't know when, the wind from where to bring the sound of the piano, lightly fell on the window sill. The brilliant yesterday, like a faded ink, in the words of the pen hidden.
The melody of "Those Years" spreads alone, singing about who was once, who lost the beautiful regret. Perhaps, time can dilute the melody of a song, but can not put a deep memory stranded. Sometimes, with the popularity of a song, the rise of a nostalgic movie, those sealed in the album blurred memories become so clear, past events in the heart.
Those years, boring classes, unresolved math problems on the blackboard, messy graffiti on the desks, are a small part of our campus life. In those years, the interesting experiments in physics class barely passed the tedious summer afternoons. In those years, the "full river red" math paper, the math teacher's angry face, the students' worried expression, is the exclusive memory of each math test after losing.
Those years, those who have been, that youth passes the time, in the memory of that distant summer, leaving us too much too much to write the story, but can only hastily a few strokes over, only because the memories of too much pain, the thought is too hurt. A fragmented memory, a stranded past, sometimes because of a familiar lens, a déjà vu scene, and woven into a set of memories of the picture.
A story, with a song and become y emotional; a song, interpretation of a story and become emotional. It never occurred to me that the pop songs that I hummed after school in those years have now become a bridge of memories. I never thought that those years when we longed to grow up and be free, we would be tired of the dull and tasteless life now. I never imagined that the school we always wanted to escape from and the tiresome learning life would now be like the old photo in the drawer, sealing a period of eternal memories.
Perhaps, youth is like a cup of strong tea, only after the bitter, can taste the sweetness. When the years drive up the lonely sail, carrying those once past gradually far away, those years, those memories, but like the heart of the rotation of the thorn, into a permanent mark. When we walk on the long road of life, don't forget those years together through the wind and rain, those years together with the writing of the youth ......
I tried to find you, when you think of me, or did not think of me. I tried to find you on the road, when there was your back, or when I couldn't see your back. The sky is light and still, and I hear your laughter in the whistling of the wind that passes between my fingers. It hung and passed in the clouds far away.
I can't give you, everything you need, what you say about holding hands, what you say about late twilight. These have too much uncertainty, I can not give you, and do not dare to give you. I can't be sure that you are the only one for the rest of my life. I can't be sure that I'm the only one in the time I have left. I can't be sure that I'm the only one in the palm prints of your hand that corresponds to the relative feelings.
Time was very early and very early after our story, but also very early to see our ending. While we were still struggling with the end of the credits, he had long since run off to the next scene of the story. It seems we are nothing in this world. There are always many people in the world's raging crowds who are nostalgic for the past, but many more who are chasing after the future.
A thought and a thought, you are the world. I thought of a sentence a long time ago, that is the most tender innocence in the age of seventeen. I'm not sure if you're going to be able to get a good look at this, but I'm sure you're going to be able to get a good look at this. The first thing you need to do is to live in happiness, and only after the years have passed will you realize what a dark blur it is to be immersed in happiness at the beginning.
Smoke and rain years, clear and warm dream, snap your fingers in a flash, and once again get away with March, half a lifetime, a curtain of words, I do not know when, quietly sealed, a silk a wisp through the barrier of memory, stranded on the wheel of time, flowing gracefully, complicated. March is moving, fingertip time, walking in this season of blossoming butterflies, a touch of tenderness, inadvertently, hazy, long hair fluttering with the wind or skirt flying.
Is it, let me spring, in addition to me, who else? Be able to, not to leave, quietly waiting for this sky smoke and rain, listening to its shallow singing deep chant. March is a beautiful place for me to live facing the water, with warm sunshine, sweet fragrance of flowers, hapless running water, green grass, and everything, hope and opportunity are tasseling out, stretching out from the mingling of snowflakes, singing from the sound of birds on the branches, playing from the strings of the rain, and floating from the depths of a lover's eyes.
The weather was stirring, and it was late in the evening, and the afterglow was still warm. Tonight's night will be different from the usual how, ears vaguely hear the distant cicadas, night and night cries, hoarse who's heart? I want to peel back the layers of dusk and take out the poems that were sandwiched inside yesterday. They know, since that day, there has been no rain in the dusk and no ink in the poems.
On the last summer night of April, don't you know, the sea breeze swept all the leaves off the campus, spreading out a long walkway from one end to the other, like walking from the warmth of spring to the blossoms. The kite in the sky flew so high, on such a windy evening, that even I thought it had grown wings. In the far away looking at the kite dazed people, you say, two years have passed, we are still the same as in the beginning?
It's been a long time since I've been to the beach, and I think it's a long way to go; I haven't thought about my friends for a long time, and I think it's been a long time since I've thought about them. Gradually, it feels like the city is thin, and so is the dusk. In the classroom, the teacher never interfered with our daze, just let us dream from class to class, so you dreamed of graduation, and my dream is still going on. Remember? We mulled over the look of youth together.
To this day, just suddenly remembered, yesterday's traces of walking is a sketch of youth, even when we discuss the appearance of the inside! They say that we have forgotten each other. But we are the same, a stone's throw away, are the temperature of the April day. Bugu cries out, seeping into my broken thoughts, from day to night. Outside the window, nothing has changed on the April campus, except that time, sometimes extremely long, sometimes extremely short. I thought, as you do, that either would be far more beautiful than the fate of sitting in a classroom withered.