Time is leisurely, touching the heart of the light smoke. Sad, hidden in the dreams of memory, light as light. Through the lintel of the years, the dream poured back to the road of time. The bits and pieces of detail pull up endless sentimentality, all the way to the withered petals, all the way to the dappled memories.
You are the moon in the water, charming, but you can't get rid of the ripples. You are the flower in the mirror, beautiful, but never touchable. You are the slightest wound that passes by my eyes, but it breaks my heart. Sitting in the shallow twilight, turning a page of time, your faint sadness is finally the dusty love that cannot be touched in your heart.
Missing, always so carelessly greeted, let people have nowhere to hide. Stacks of memories about you pile up. Sorrow grows like grass on this summer day, and your face is a pool of blue water that I look at at twilight, and a long touch of acacia is smeared.
The figure of The Thought of The Thought sees through the eternal flow of time, and in the watchful eye, the wind of the years slowly crushes the sorrow and joy of the red dust. A handful of over-the-top years, crushed into a wisp of wind in the season. A round of qinghui will wash the thoughts into purity, paint you a picture of the situation in the flow of years, and taste the heavens and the earth in the red dust.
A few degrees in the past, hovering in front of the sleepless window, gently floating over the acacia tree that bloomed in his heart. A butterfly, stopping in silence on the treetops. The feathers on the back of the shoulder have penetrated too much trance-like time. I am the scenery you have forgotten at the end of the world, tracing back with all your true feelings, but at such a time you have been lost.
My thoughts toward the twilight can only turn into clouds on paper. Holding hands for years, like the shadow of color skimming through the discolored sky. Looking back, stirring up the coolness of the clouds and waters, it is twisted into season after season, and any lifelong thoughts are haggard in the wind into poetry, gently twisted into mud.
My years of watching, in the branches of the night, faded into a dream with tears. Take an acacia and give all your attachments to the wind that leaves the window, even if no one listens at the end of the world. Draw a small poem and spread all the emotions along the plain letter, even if the red dust no one can understand.
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