In March in Jiangnan, the grass is long and warblers fly, and the unique agility and beauty of Jiangnan drag the heart away. In the wind, which was as thin as a cicada's wing, shallow smelled the sweet fragrance of peach blossoms. The sunken finger is soaked in the tender brightness of the finger, ripples with the clear rhyme of the spring willow on the bluestone river, and the light of the pool of clear water is the eternal legend of the smoke willow painting boat.
The heart is like glass, and Fang Fei is between the eyebrows. Standing at the intersection of the seasons, in the cool breeze of early spring, shallow nostalgia, nostalgia for that beautiful summer, that gorgeous encounter. At that time, the strange flowers bloomed, and the dark fragrance filled the sleeves.
You have a flowing plain shirt, a shallow smile on your lips, a light look back at the end of the world, and a season of clear and clear water color. From then on, only the flowers bloomed and not the year.
A flood of smoke and rain covered the old marks, and half-sleeved acacia was pale red dust. After many flowers blooming and falling seasons, I am still the woman who is as simple as a simple heart, picking flowers and smiling. The joys of the flowing years are picked up one by one, woven into a beautiful and graceful garland, and hung on the lintel of the years.
Bright or dim, in the end, it is just an unattainable warm wish in the shallow years. Years, flicking at the fingertips. Outside the Twenty-Four Bridge, the flute falls on the moon; any smoke and rain gently render a frame of rhymed ink Jiangnan. And you are still thriving in your memory.
At this moment, the wind is light and the peach blossoms are beautiful, and I gently close my tearful eyes and listen to the sound of your lonely feet. The wind of early spring, brushing my long messy hair, is like the warmth of the wisps of your fingertips. Thousands of miles of smoke waves, fog lock heavy buildings. The wind and moon on the shore of the water, the smoke willows of the Su Causeway in Fireworks in March, and the ink-stained shadow, a shallow melancholy between the eyebrows under your eyes.
Even if I poured out three thousand words, I couldn't salvage it, a vein of like Lan's tight style, a love affair that was separated from the sky. I only wish that, as your words, will be a gentle affection, flying on the fingertips of the fingers.
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