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Listen to the snow
The snow fell slowly, and I walked slowly. The first snowflakes in front of the window instantly turned into flowing thoughts, and the thoughts had words and thoughts about you.
Just as the plum blossoms also bloomed, standing in this silver tenderness, like peach lips like a scarf like a smile, clinging to the mountains and rivers, leaning against the treetops, sticking to the roof, following the time that has passed and is passing and the imprint of cooking smoke.
Watch the snow drift lightly, like your dance steps. Listening to the snow is silent but more surging than sound.
A kind of tenderness, a kind of romance, a kind of kiss, a kind of Zen, a meeting that has gone through spring and summer, let me run in the sunshine in the love of this world.
Because of you, because of this world worth bending over.
The snow is accumulating more and more, and watch the rivers and mountains wrapped in silver!
Listening to the snow of three or five years, the sound is tremendous, and it still fills every heart and is plastered with red souls, which is really unprecedented.
Listen to the laughter of childhood in the eyes of the snowman, laugh out of the warmth of black beans, laugh out of the crooked folds of parents' life. Or wait in a corner to catch a sparrow.
Listen to your parents: it's a life, you don't have to trample on it.
Zen in the snow, be kind to every encounter in life. Or listen to the broom strolling in the snow and collect all the plain paintings of the dog plum chicken bamboo.
Every year the snow comes and goes, always leaving a kind of concern and apology. Say that you cherish what you have now, but quickly forget it in the hurried footsteps, and explain that you must do a childlike heart in the next year, and talk with the snow, but what year is next year, I can't predict or change the years, and more and more is the accumulation of the old but never surpassed the childlike heart.
A year is a year of snow, too beautiful too much mood in the colorful world into a thin eyebrow crescent moon hanging in the heart, not only a poem, a plum but a light dance you occupy my whole world.
You are gentle as snow, pure as snow, and falling into my lovesickness is an endless stream of cold tears.
If I hadn't come into this world, I wouldn't have had anything to do with the snow, and I wouldn't have heard all the tenderness. He zeng can put you in your heart, go to the spring to swim in the summer to the waves and autumn, to write a long confession for you.
Now I am an old man who fishes alone in the snow, through the years when the pear blossoms are full of thousands of trees, where my boat is moored, and whether the boat of the edge of the degree is also prepared for you with light fragrant tea.
How far away is it, three thousand weak waters are enough. He once had a distant heart.
Falling snow for me, listen to the snow has you, pure and immaculate, relying on each other, only for a piece of plum fragrance in the cold apology, to find the taste of spring.
Listen to the snow, understand a Zen, warm a cup of comfort, wait for a fate, waiting for you to bring the world spring
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