-Mention
The moon is bright and the stars are sparse, the cool breeze is blowing gently, the pinellia flowers are blooming and the catkins are flying. Hot summer nights always touch people's hearts. I like to pick up nice words, piece together a paragraph and copy a book of songs in the dim night. I often look for flowers between the lines, often walk alone in the country of words, brew a poem with feelings, give meaning to the poem with your name, and crown the essence of the poem with my surname.
A curtain of the moon, hanging in my heart, leaning against the building to listen to the wind, worrying more. I am a person who loves mo Xiang. In my spare time, I hold a pen, twist it, grind ink with my sleeves, and dip it with a gold pen. Sandalwood jade case, brewing a thread chapter. After several crossings, poetry and wine take up all the time. You are the book of songs written by me, and I know it by heart; You are the bright moon in front of my jade case, and I am lonely.
Raise a lamp of time, listen quietly and tell stories; Mizuki Hinano, very charming. Hold a roll of Lang's recitation with your book of songs, sleep in an old poem after years, clip yourself in the title page and wait for you with the most beautiful posture. Day by day, I heard the sound of the wind, so I used the scenery to express my feelings and called your name in the name of the wind. Some feelings of the past were blown here by the wind. Mount Wan Ren, a lonely city, is full of fear and silence. Enjoy yourself and drink with the moon alone. A bottle of sake is just old.
Accompanied by, in the middle of the night, a short dream interval, Zhangtai moonlight scattered with Guangling. The evening breeze with clear rhyme blows, plucking the strings of the years, melodious melody comes trotting around and throwing green plums, and the quiet night sky is full of worries. Fingertips across the silent heart, pick up the yellowed past. The book of time burns the warmth of the past. Looking back, there are always some joys and sorrows, or joys and sorrows.
A song is clear, and the string is cold and acacia is crystal clear. Memories are like smoke, bleached by time, heart rolled up, melancholy sigh. Fingertips pass by, leaving a little regret, stopping at the bottom of my heart but deeply attached. A twisted and fragmented feeling will eventually leave an indelible mark on my heart. Let the past drift away with the dust in the plain ink fragrance, leaving this painful and sweet intersection as a memory.
Colorful flowers are dancing, and beautiful flowers are my gesture. Curtain roll west wind, Iraqis go; The moonlight falls on the city, you watch. Time remains the same, but without your gentleness; The sun and the moon shine together, but without your company. What bits and pieces of words are like petals falling with the wind in a distant city. When the leaves fall in the wind, I miss the disaster. Twist a maple leaf and write a paragraph, which is my message to you.
Lovers talk, there is nowhere to remember, and paragraphs are engraved in their hearts; Draw your heart with your left hand, draw you with your right hand, and invite you into poetry. The shadows of the moon overlap, and a song is clear and farewell; Looking at the moon for a long time, a wisp of ink fills the air in Runnan City. Time is still the same, I think you are still the same, the bright moon sends acacia thousands of miles away, and the prosperity is exhausted. You once said; You won't give up as long as I don't leave. You once said; As long as I am still in love, you will always be there. Misty rain and the world of mortals, time flies, always gather less and leave more, love, who can say it clearly?
The names buried in my heart for several years will always float in my mind inadvertently, and the looming sadness will be overwhelming. After some tumbling and stirring, it is so inconspicuous. Crossing the bridge of time and stepping on the tunnel of time, I have been paying attention to you at the pious ferry.
The wind is seamless, the moon is meditating, the shadows are swaying, and people are thin. Sigh and regret for a day, in the dream of three thousand mortals, * * * is beautiful, this day is disappearing, I am crying for you forever, I can't wake up yet, and the mist in an infinite sea of clouds is quiet and charming. Miss the rich years and thin yourself. In fact, I didn't miss you very much, really didn't miss you very much, just wrote you in my poem. Ink dyeing brocade year, it is you who rhyme my cardamom years; Sha Hongchen, you have rendered my landscape painting.
The wings of time and light travel day and night. The fragrance of the years, shallow and faint, fragrant the season and drunk the years. The four seasons are fluttering, the misty rain is setting in the sun, and if the flowers bloom and fall, will the years be safe and secure? If imitation is sad, then a paragraph may only move you. A season of flowers, a wisp of ink, a dream of spring, a haggard face, and a stunning fleeting time. The ink cloud has become a ruin, and the years remain fragrant.