The wind, the slightly cool feeling.
The June breeze whisks by, knocking down the memory of the fall of the clear astringent, body and mind refreshing, from the fingertips percolate to the bottom of the heart. Stiff body in standing with the wind posture swaying. Leaves gently dance, the rustling sound intoxicates people with warmth and touches, touched in the rhythm of the big sound. I gently shed the sweat stains on the body, searching for the heart of a former teenager, will be clear to send their own fuzzy memories.
The wind is a boat from the clouds, full of childhood longing, changing the water on the side of the heart. So step by step to the place where there is water, reflecting the reflection of the wind walked, just can not be captured, let a wisp of melancholy in the smoke faded. The wind whipped the ripples on the water, stretching in the pure sight. The light and delicate dance in the waves, intoxicated and turned over in the gusts of humid air.
The clothes become disorganized in the reckless enjoyment, like the mood that can't be cleaned up. Throwing clear sorrow, floating up and down in the wind, coalescing into a white paper, calling out the echo of childhood, leaving light and heavy creases, transformed into a paper airplane, flying in the wind as a road in the tunnel of time fly ah fly. The curved arcs in the air are smiles, cries and unfinished dreams. When the paper airplane glides in a circle, the thoughts also swim in a continuation of the temperature of the past. When the plane is slowly falling, the memories will be crushed in the waves, and hidden in the wind wishes are still doing the aftermath of the frustration.
The wind's frustration lies in the clouds, the wind said, I often envy the clouds, because that is floating in my heart white.
Clouds, white on the heart.
Clouds, floating around, dancing with the wind, will bring my wishes together in the blue sky. I am in pursuit of that white dream, light and soft, that is the cradle of another person's fascination. I looked away, ran, and chased it all the way to the other side of the mountain. It is still so close to me, so far away, I am confused, frustrated, do not know whether I should continue to run, or waiting on the edge of the watch? How could the beauty of that cotton wool not be enviable? How can its ever-changing body not be mesmerizing? The sun shines on it, it uses its body to cover the sun's face, so its soft lines are covered with a golden luster, it is transformed into a horse, and then into a fish, and then rolling, and then waves. It was as beautiful as a maiden and as lively as a child. I wanted to fly to it and possess it. But I don't know how to treat it and own it. It is a holy petal in my heart, holding it in my hand for fear of flying, and in my mouth for fear of melting.
I often dream that I become a cloud, colorful, come and go freely. The wind is my companion, swimming recklessly with me in the ocean of the sky, and we learn from the pious Quatre, racing against the sun. The wind tells me that we leave behind a tale of the sky's light and clouds *** wandering. I told the wind, don't run yet, the heavenly Quaestor expects our triumphant figure. The wind started to be fierce and so did my running, forgetting time and space. The sun tanned my skin black, I smiled at the wind, it's nothing, it's a healthy color. In the midst of running, I heard the sound of the quartet shouting for support, and I saw the appreciative smile of the sun. The wind said, running is a kind of power, we forget why we chase. I say, sometimes the chase does not need a reason, because it is a devout faith.
The sun is gradually westward, we throw all the way through the dots, the wind said, that is rain. I said, no, that is the spirit of dampness, the essence of water.
Rain, the damp spirit, the essence of water.
Rain in the warm heavens, densely woven diagonally, like a curtain of scattered water. The dry world becomes moist with the sound of dripping and hammering. The leaves become greener, the air becomes brighter, and people's mood begins to be rumpled up. Hold a small umbrella in the rain walk, let the rain beat the heart of the years, into the ground deep and shallow puddles. The distant green hills in the dense smoke, people can not help but think of that poetry, such as painting, such as song, like a fairyland-like paradise. Smoke filled river has long been missing drifting fishing boats, and my thoughts are still immersed in that "green Ruo hat, green Demoiselle, the wind and rain do not have to return" in the situation, do not want to come out.
The warm rain cleansing how much dust of history, just I can not restore, can not be clearly visible to describe the sadness of the ancients. I can only hold a small umbrella, pacing on the road where the previous person has walked, with the youthful thoughts to savor a paragraph of distant stories, and then turned into soil, hidden fragrance. The rain pattered down, slipping away in the cracks of the path, like a young girl hiding a sad past in the pharynx. Through the rain curtain to see the gray sky, dust and how many stories are not known? And I see to still just a rain, a small road, a lonely river, and I, holding a small umbrella, in the wind and rain in the shape of a single shadow stood.
The rain is the spirit of dampness, the soul of water. Just how many moving stories it has turned into dirt, even the fragrance is hidden in the dirt. The fragrance that emanates into the air may be the story's trust, or my poor reverie. My tears fell attached to the rain, and I could not tell which was the rain and which was the tears, and I wondered if that was the essence of water.
The rain is still pattering down, and I can not read what it is saying, but only in the rain and fog to look at its posture.
A little bit of condensed smoke
Night, a hint of coolness, the wind, sniffing the jasmine in front of the window, elegant fragrance, convergence of a trace of gentleness, drunken starry sleepless night. At this time, I listened to a song "a little bit of condensation smoke". Classical gentle music slowly came, like a long lost friend, trekking thousands of mountains and waters to find me a thousand times, sweetly look back, met me in the jasmine fragrance moment. In the midst of joy, I abandoned the lock of my heart to the willow smoke, and opened my heart to welcome a piece of heavenly music. The perfect combination of erhu and guzheng, a crisp and pleasant, reminiscent of the big pearls falling from the jade plate, a melodious and melancholy, people can not help but mourn a little. Close your eyes, let your thoughts drift into Zhuang Sheng's butterfly, branded with the beauty of the sea and moon, in the vastness of the blue field and warmth of the sun, fly, fly away to the realm of a little condensed smoke.
The sound of the guzheng, such as the cold winter water, in the season of spring warmth and wind, swung open a cavity of softness, layer by layer, wave by wave, flooding green budding tide. Remote thought, twenty-four bridges under the moon, is the piper sound for koto music, gently tell the dream of the regret of the previous dynasty, a talk is a thousand years, the world's frost shook down the red beans in the South, ice on the end of the world, why, a bit of condensation of smoke around the music to do the sound does not fall apart, ringing in every corner of my heart. Guzheng around the ear, is the blue water gurgling and flowing, each note is like a head down and standing maidservant, pear blossom like snow face withered in the palace wall at the green willow. Guzheng is like water, carrying up how many dreams of life, floating up in the depths of the red dust, how many years, like water still flow, such as the beauty of the flowers has been hastily thanked the flowers red. Guzheng silk, and meditation in the mood, coiled into rolling hills, each peak, each endurance, are involved in the ancient legends. In the legend, there will be an immortal hermit? All day long away from the hustle and bustle, read the clouds roll in and out, the gentleman prudent in solitude of the ancient motto, dissolve into nature, look down on life. This koto music piled up in the mountains, leaving Confucius when traveling around the rut, deep and shallow traces, written in the "know stop fixed, fixed and can be quiet, quiet and can be safe, safe and can be considered, considered and can be gained the ancient aphorisms.
The erhu is a ghost, in my ears, always has a cold percolating into the bone, always blood and tears like an accusation of what. With this music, the erhu rhythm soft into smoke, soaring and soothing, flowing like a jade belt, y haunted by the koto paved mountains, imagined that the clouds and smoke in the smoke, the peaks of the mountains if hidden, and sometimes dew a corner, and then all hidden, and that smoke, gently around, such as a dream, like a dream, such as a poem, such as a picture. Is the reputation of the world's White Causeway, extended from a mountain, the smoke with the embankment all the way to the dust, do not give up, snuggle up to each other, there is the West Lake Spring Dawn of the country and the city. Erhu array, lingering low, such as sobbing, is a wisp of smoke, blue water generated by the smoke, surrounded by a shroud of koto flow into the water, unwilling to disperse, refused to float away, according to the water, murmuring with the gentleman born of the coolness of my unborn. A little bit of cohesion, a thread of winding, finally built that broken bridge. Broken bridge should be covered with snow? No, the tenderness of the smoke dissolved the snow, flowing into the spell of the White Lady's water flooded San Francisco, to witness the thousand years of waiting for a vow. Erhu sound like smoke, around the mountains, around the water, the mountains and water, green smoke dance, purple mist, this is a fairyland on earth, during the swim, drink a pot of old wine, hang a green sword in the waist, ride a flat boat, drifting with the water, above the blue water, under the dome of the sky, the wind is full of sleeves, the intention is full of the chest, and how cozy, such as if the real attempt to, what is there to ask for?
The guzheng dingdong, a sound, like the morning bells and drums ringing a few times on earth, recalling more than a few of the most true memories, is the dust, blowing reed reed long wind, swept through my slightly confused heart, a hard to find the seclusion into a grain of seed, implanted in my heart, I should be a pious visit, so that it flourished into a big tree in the sky. Erhu melodious, a burst, like a thousand years of dust, dispersing the immortal wind and bone, brush away the dirt of my heart, those sadness and happiness, generated a meteor, flashed through a trace, fell into the vast universe. Looking back to the end of the world, the old dream is far away, only to hear the condensed smoke a little light sob dust. The color of the night is like water, the sound of music is like water, drenched my thin sleeves, is the music to provoke people, or people to provoke music?
A little bit of condensed smoke around the blue water, half a wisp of wind around the broken bridge, thinking, I will be intoxicated do not know the way back. In any case, I can not collect the scattered thoughts, and "a little condensation of smoke" of the beautiful melody of the God travel. Sent between the landscape, see the sun and the moon thousands of years, is my heart's most true and primitive hope, in each section of life, I have lost a lot of dreams, but only this feeling, still disk in my heart, indestructible. In the heavy night, I borrowed a piece of classical music, and realized my own dream, as some things, by myself.
"A little smoke" holding the fragrance of jasmine, for me to sew a fine dress, put on the time, on the self-indulgence, feeling from the heart to the outside of the beauty of the one, at this moment, the heart is clear, throw away the right and wrong, throw away the greed, anger, dementia. Eileen Chang said, "Short is the life, long is the ordeal." In the life of a fleeting horse, treat yourself and others well. You see, the color of spring has not yet had time to fade, the autumn moon is already full of smiles. Such a short life, live each day well, and hope that everyone is born like a summer flower, but less green, fat, red and thin regret.
Buddhist scriptures say: the phase is born from the heart, all the laws of the mind, a thousand people will have a thousand kinds of imagination. A bit of condensed smoke" I heard out of this state of mind, this kind of scenery, realize the flavor of Zen, Zen concept. So, you go to listen, what will you hear?