Sleeping with ink on my pillow, I dream about a thousand journeys...
Looking at the mountains and mountains, listening to the roar of the river and sea; the rolling world, the numerous earthly things, everything under the interpretation of time is so shallow.
Listen to the years like poetry and songs, and see the loneliness and prosperity of the world. Stopping by the river of life and watching the pot drifting away is a metaphor for sadness. I bent down to salvage the Chinese years that were passing by in a hurry. I wanted to pick them up, but I couldn't.
The stone steps of the ancient bridge are slanted by the flowing water; here the willow silk shadows leave traces of the sunset, and the strings of wind chimes swinging under the eaves of the pavilion. Before they met, there were tiny and ethereal lingering sounds in the whispers of the evening breeze; after parting, they turned into bits and pieces of silent chanting, and the feelings gradually faded away as a vicissitudes of life like trekking through mountains and rivers.
It's night, the wind is rising and the clouds are falling.
The vast dust and smoke are about to disperse. The clouds gradually shed their beautiful shells, and before the cold stars appeared, they were alive with the last glimpse of the world filled with fireworks. Looking up, sadness floated in the air, and whoever turned around couldn't bear to watch a scene disappear without a trace.
The years are like the wind, blowing away the smoke and dust of vicissitudes of life. The unpredictable veins stir up, burying the past years. Some people, some things I have experienced, and deep in the years, I gradually think of it hazily and tenderly, remembering the frustration and sadness, and thinking of the boundless relationship in this world.
At the beginning of the night, I stopped, drunk and singing. Drinking a pot of sake, all kinds of melancholy is in my arms, my intestines are aching, the cool breeze in front of me is clear and parting, and the blurred shadow of drunkenness is dormant and desolate. Is it blowing a smoke-like past, picturesque and poetic in the twists and turns of life?
Suddenly looking back, full of melancholy, trembling in the soft heart amidst the sigh of the wind.
The lost years and lost old dreams are dim, low and nostalgic in the depths of memory. confused. The mist and rain of isolation from the world, in the desolate dream, sleep soundly on the chest, filling the heart with the everlasting dull pain.
Wandering at night, listening to the whisper of the wind; the lonely night sky whispers a touch of sadness.
The soft sound of wind, filled with chill, fell into the ears, breaking the silence of the night. This seems to be a song from a distant memory from another life, and the shadow of some romantic stories condensed with my thoughts, then dispersed, gently drifting in the dust waves of the past.
Perhaps the past is just like the light smoke, coming inadvertently and leaving no trace. There are too many unpredictable changes and involuntary separations in the world. The distant annual rings have crushed the charm of the past; the traces of depression leave only a touch of sadness, engraved in the heart.
Traveling through the secular world, surrounded by the dust that cannot be shaken off, looking at the country and the mountains is like a picture. The flower dream blooming at the fingertips is like going through a storm, and has been crushed into mud in the years on the other side.
Who, in a quiet and drunken dream, silently writes tenderness and tenderness to call for the comfort of old scenes and years;
Who walks alone in the world of mortals, turning the three tastes into the empty lovesickness and falling flowers...
In the mist and rain, who turns around desolately, sighs and says a precious word, and then the wetness disappears into smoke that will never go away.
Turn over the palm to reverse the growth rings, and flick the fingers to see the passing years; turn over the hand to reverse the universe, and wave the sleeves to disperse the smoke and clouds.
Catch a collection of clear words and beautiful sentences. The ink pen outlines the lost beauty in the past years, and the strokes of the pen interpret the smoke-like past.
The melodious and desolate echoes are chanted in the lonely lines of poetry, which are bound in a framed volume and become the eternity of memory. Sleeping with ink on my pillow, I dream about a thousand journeys...
