The night is not yet young, and your footsteps are slow in the distance. I can only hear the endless flow of mountains and rivers and the beautiful melancholy of fireworks self-immolation. Who hung the love poem on the string moon? Who extinguishes yearning in the heart of shackles? A night wind lifted the tip of the hair, and fell a thousand points of thin ink into a line, make cocoons to sew and mend, thinking of forgetting. There is a bright moonlight outside the window, without the vicissitudes of life in the door.
Suddenly thought, mountain and water are not doomed lovers? Lean on the mountains and water to make a good family. But I am just a mountain, standing and gazing, is there an Iraqi string inviting the moon on the side of the water? Regardless of the provenance of the family. Facing the water, there are mountains and rivers and graceful.
First called the milk name, then called the name, and then nothing, it turned out that this is a step-by-step process. I won't say I miss you. I won't say it. I won't say it anyway. I just say bless you, bless me, bless us, wish us happiness in the next stop.
In fact, every wandering, not necessarily meet the fate of the first appearance, not every time cry, there will be such a shoulder, not every time I miss you, you happen to be there. All the beautiful legends are stories created by the yearning of the heart, all the love, hate and entanglement, are tears hesitated by the desire of affectionate reproduction, all of which can not stand your departure and achieve nothing.
In fact, the day is still the day, you still walk the road ahead, but become confused. In fact, the mood is still the mood, but has nothing to do with the heart, but also according to the tick of the clock far flow. In fact, too much heart into the marrow, how can and see and do not see a high and low love shallow?
It turns out that there are such complicated reasons for leaving, but there is no doubt about that period of Spring and Autumn period. On the title page of the season, there are stitches, stitches, words, words, eyes, understanding and pace, until at last all the troubles are smoke clouds after time, and self-contradictory illegal immigration is full of immortal memories. how can it be decided by a sentence and half a sentence? Things that have been done in the past.
Tonight, I don't know how many times there have been tonight, I come here again. This road, I want to walk, afraid of being surprised and gentle, afraid of not finding familiarity, afraid that people are not things, careful, do not break memories of celadon, thin rain is not disturbed by me, carry a kind of primitive past, see each other again at first sight.
Even if there is no moon lamp, there is a fragrance as a guide, you say it is your hair fragrance, to plant on the road I must go through. Even if there is no melodious sound, there is a night wind over the shoulder, you say it is your glass love. Even without all the languages, there is still the first sight, you say that in the old house, it is like a green vine in front of the window.
If I were a mountain, you were just the water that used to bend around my waist, I bowed my head just to reflect in your eyebrow, let the landscape into the painting, the breeze to linger. If I am the wind, you are just the rain of the mood, drenched unexpectedly, I want to play the symphony of nature with you, let the season perform. If I were a tree, you are just a fleeting migratory bird, the kingdom of the forest, you are my pride, how many peaceful days, but the branches of reincarnation are strange.
Push open doors and windows, you can rewind the time, you are beautiful in the old house. Idle dust, I brush every ornament one by one, gently change to the surface of memory. Cuibi is time, light powder is your appearance, plain white is your fingertips cool. In the traces of pen and ink, it turns out that after time has passed, it has been stamped into the past and can only be read and should not be remembered or forgotten.
There is an occasional extra book on the shelf. I know you have come back, just like another painting in the ink case, and you also know that I have come back. With a few strokes, the sketch is safe and sound? The breeze is difficult to understand, and the Xuan window is closed. The moon does not understand, the green light only shadows the sky and is bright. We don't get together, we don't break up, but we just don't see each other. This scene comes and goes, entangled with how many objective feelings have to be, and to avoid the truth of a mood, only in the inexplicable loneliness and annoyance, can only ask themselves why they are separated and why they are together. Dawn, and then erase all the books into memories, buckle up and tell yourself that it is the story of yesterday.
When reduced to a fact, yesterday can no longer go back, thousands of thoughts, are in the past, we were defeated by secular logic, and released the love relationship only careful care in the memory. The old house is only suitable for memories, allowing us to be capricious for a moment, and compassion has to be erased. In the old house, I love you when you are there, and my love has not been taken back without you.
Words / Ji Lin Sky
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