Use a story to weave a breezy breeze; use a comprehension to measure the coolness of the years; with a deep affection, touch the warmth. Warm a pot of moonlight, faint faint silver, open the scroll of memory, look for the original love of the past Knock off cartier jewelry, in the white hair, waiting for you. A pair of ferry wooden paddles, smashing through the water of three thousand years. Smoothed the sharp corners of the shore and sprinkled the green velvet moss. The slippery stone steps and the imprints left by you, and even the warm body temperature of the silk, the breath in the night wind and the moonlight of the water smell, fell to the bottom of my heart. There is no reason, no warning, a letter will take you away, leaving you and my love. The beautiful love turned out to be a swaying paper house, so that it could not stand the test, and a gust of wind blew away. The colorful halo has covered this long lie. Lonely flowering and disguised pages all play a deceptive role, transforming one bright and colorful flower that cannot be discerned. Perhaps, you hope that a tree blossoms, dazzling, and spending thousands of days; perhaps, you hope that the giant wheel will go far, sail all over the world, and the steering wheel world; perhaps, you hope to be the corner of the sea, show your talent, brilliant years Perhaps,
you want to have a long and round annual ring, quiet life, sweet love. Maybe, maybe. In fact, these are all reasons, but I did not think of it, or did not think so deep. It is no longer important to leave. Since I have to go, I have been thinking for a long time. There may not be love together, and each may love more. There are bustling and charming in the bits and pieces, and there are love and attachment in the gesture. The heart that does not dye the dust is warm and calm, and the spring is a red and green flower. The flowers bloom and fall without regret. As long as it is still in deep memory, there is a poem in the wind, and a painting in the snow. A pot of moonlight, cold and cold frost through the sky, shake off a dead leaf on the pillow, the residual weak fragrance, with the wind. I stood on the dock and looked at the sails. The water flowed forward, and the wind and the wind blew in the wind and looked forward to the first poem. Thousands of sails are far away, there is always a sail back, hanging red lanterns, flags and clothes. The flower is just right, the time is still early, and a flower is enchanting. When you come back, I pick you up at the dock; if you have something to come back, I am here waiting for you. I have already warmed up a pot of moonlight and followed the mountains with the water. The red dust is planted with wind and rain, and the roses are harvested. The spring is filled with spring, and the peach blossoms are everywhere. Under the moonlight, the pier is full of flowers.