On rainy days, it is always lonely. A person, listening to the rain, reading books, drinking tea, there is joy, there is sorrow and joy, there are thousands of words, no one knows. Better yet, listen to music together, beautiful and quiet, and the sound is intoxicating. A rain, a state of mind, a heart, singing and chanting on the edge of samsara.
The spring rain caressed the tranquility of the spring night, and I turned a piece of tired paper covered in dust into a poem, soaked in the dryness of the years, twisted into a warm rain curtain, and bloomed on the dreamy branches. The sky is light, the silk bamboo is shallow, and a touch of wind and dust of the rain lifts the freshness of the tip of my eyebrows and softens my cool long-cherished wish.
In the rainy night, a curtain of hazy light ink carries a thousand kinds of tender feelings, gently blowing smoke and rain in Jiangnan, and ringing the heartstrings of a rhythmic melody. The spring rain is long, the drops splash on the embankment of acacia, and the heart song of Qingwan flows through the silk rain to wet the light red face.