The sky is blue and so on, while your picture in the south of the Yangtze River is medium-sized. Hazy misty rain, empty sky, an old city, green brick Daiwa, the street was silent, the drizzle fell from the eaves once a time, the oil paper umbrella in the rain lane must have fascinated the wind and rain, the rain affectionately tapped the mottled bluestone slate road, as if to tell that passers-by have been following a romantic and legendary dream since ancient times. The feelings like smoke and rain are embellished in this fresh and elegant ink painting in the south of the Yangtze River.
A season of peach dreams opened the branches of spring on both sides of the Yangtze River, and the memory of peach blossoms on both sides of the Yangtze River was also tripping over the misty rain of the years, and the affectionate steps were always wandering in the old places where people were different from year after year, waiting to meet the first sight that had not been seen for a long time, the photo that startled Hongbo. Incessant Acacia in the air into a silk drizzle, cool breeze dancing the shore stretching green wicker disturbed the original tranquility of the lake, circles of gentle ripples swaying into a broken dream, quietly scattered around. The flowers blooming on the tree were picked by the delicate hands of wind and rain, falling to the ground in sorrow, whispering the frivolous joys and sorrows of the world of mortals. Wander at will, looking for a corner where no one knows to bury this sad thought, but affectionate people are everywhere, so they have to put a curtain of dreams with no ending in the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River.
The color of the front is sunny, especially wet, and the spring clouds are not dark at the bottom of the pen. Ink flowers dripping Cui slightly broken, hidden a few suddenly heard the mountain rain. Through the poetic misty rain, my eyes blurred as if I saw a thin silhouette sitting alone in the window lamenting that the flowers were heavy, the grass smoke was low, and the curtain was hanging. Roll bead curtain, roll melancholy, green, fat, red and thin, on the water side. Melancholy eyes seem to have been isolated by misty rain for thousands of years in the past, the fragrance of flowers is full of red and desolate, years of sad dreams spread into lovesickness in the misty rain, and the sound of dripping rain drowned the shallow sorrow in crying. Misty rain such as smoke, such as misty rain, such as the dream of Jiangnan wet who fleeting dreams, where are the lingering sorrows and desolation in poetry? The old dream of an oil-paper umbrella falls in which lonely place to bury my memories, waiting for the beauty and fragrance of the flowers when we meet again.
Calligraphy and painting are always self-aware, but it is slow to repair the cloud and splash ink. A favorite book will be mixed with wind and rain splash ink, cloud and water Zen heart, not old four seasons have different taste, a person will hide in the book alone wandering, obsessed with the people and stories in the book, that yellowing time also has my intoxication and sadness, the similar emotional experience in the world sings the love war, confusion, loss, sinking, abandonment, escape, living alone. The worrying plot may be just a dream of the world of mortals. In my heart, I always fantasize about meeting a misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, and the season of April Fangfei in the West Lake is beautiful and dreamy, hazy and ethereal, such as the misty rain where there are romantic waiting and legends, waiting for affectionate people to look for.
In the twilight of the past, I frowned wordlessly. Whether an affectionate oil paper umbrella has taken away the amorous old dream of passers-by, the beautiful shadow of the bridgehead, may have become an unforgettable scenery in the eyes of passers-by. The sky is blue and so on, while I am waiting for you in the south of the Yangtze River, where I miss you at night. The dream I miss at night bid farewell to the suffering and anxiety of black and white, bathe in the cool baptism of the night, wash away the tiredness of body and mind, wash away the dirt and melancholy of the dust, and whether the flowers I have been waiting for for a long time will bloom a new color in the morning tomorrow. The heart, whether in the city or outside the city, is always lingering with unforgettable sadness, whether the memory in time shakes off the childishness of the years and reveals the vicissitudes of life, but I am afraid that the mood of the empty bottle to the moon can only be sad to the current and hurt to the water.
Misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, always hiding the footprints of people chasing dreams in calm, wet apricot flowers and rain, blowing face not cold willow wind, perhaps a wind and dust looking forward to meet is the lingering wind and rain. Do not borrow the first peach leisure embellished in the hazy drizzle, before the flowers, in the boat, on the bridge, under the moon, the silent and long rain lane, every place may have missed shoulder-to-shoulder, every time may have unintentional or intentional glance and look back. There are fleeting steps on the slate road, amorous people stop and make a wish under the affectionate tree, the beauty may be appreciated in the eyes, and the love of the old dream may be round in the heart.
In the poetic south of the Yangtze River, the moderate rain may make the brilliant flowers blossom in the eyes or get drunk, but they are only temporarily stranded the obsession of the past. maybe we should be open-minded and leisurely listen to a guzheng playing "Spring River Moon Night" or "fishing Boat singing Evening" to adjust the mood that has been repressed for a long time, put yearning still in the smart notes, forget melancholy, forget troubles. In the drizzle I haven't seen for a long time, my heart may calm down and meditate and want to silence myself into the dream seeker in the lake, drifting into an eternal scenery, never grow old in the eyes of passers-by, and stay away from the disturbance of sorrow in the calm of the wind and moon. enjoy the solitary joy of raising your glass and inviting the moon in the boat.
Walking in the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, I like walking alone on the promenade. I can watch the rain up close and listen to the rain. I can find the calm that my heart longs for in the emptiness and dexterity. Tired body and mind will temporarily forget the city's fast-paced sadness and pressure, in the tick and crisp rain, enjoy the moment away from the hustle and bustle of calm and beauty, even in the mind that once unforgettable nostalgia, that once youth happiness, as if also in the misty rain faded. In the face of drizzle such as smoke, life is not a misty rain, bitter and short love for a long time, and so people are also old, the blue sky is still as good as yesterday, the clear sky is still safe, the world may have forgotten the wind and rain just now. Perhaps only when it rains can we wash a dust heart, can soberly think about a person or a thing, think about the emotional ties of the past, think about the thoughts of the past, but the foot is always an extension of extravagant hope and pursuit. In the hazy misty rain, the intertwined red and green in the distance and high and low blend in the movement and stillness, this visual shock within reach, so that the lonely soul can feel the breath of life, so that affectionate yearning can feel whether the memory is still fresh in the rain.
The day turns the light rain into the middle of spring, who sees the chaos of the flowers on the branches. Looking at the end of the world, shallow Dai Chunshan gauze everywhere. Wind and rain ruthlessly seem to be affectionate, affectionate since ancient times hurt farewell. Love in the world of mortals is mostly like the sand in the wind, the flowers in the mirror and the moon in the water, gradually disappearing in the eyes of lovers chasing and looking forward to, and quietly lost in the palmprints of expectation. Perhaps some will leave an oath of loyalty, but in the end there is no persistent physical and mental waiting. The misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River in the dream is like a curtain of spring dreams, hanging in front of the window of the dreamer, waiting for the amorous person to lift, but it is often blown away by the dry summer wind, waving out the warmth and coolness of human feelings in the air, floating into an unknown residual dream, I don't know where to go.
The misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River is always telling about the classic separation of love and hate in the world. People in the world are often willing to pursue dreams, to follow romantic encounters, to understand what is love and hate, what is sorrow and what is pain, but in the end, they may just be watching themselves or others acting in a play or having a dream. Once the emotion seems to be condensed into a wandering cloud, but turned into a meeting rain in an instant, perhaps bid farewell to the past in this way, and then asked only misty rain without asking the past. The water of the West Lake is always quietly listening to people's babbling, perhaps it is this gentle and considerate beauty that makes the world linger and indefatigable. In the drizzling water and ink, I can be close to her on the boat, turn the distant thoughts into a touch close at hand, hold hands with a poetic ripple, and hold hands with a hundred years of love.
Miss such as the sea, love such as tide, miss such as misty rain lingering, never give up the emotion once again sprinkled melancholy on the painting of ink Jiangnan, the poignant taste evenly left to the world aftertaste of the insipid experience. A season of dreamy blooming ink dyed into black and white thick oil paint, in the furnace quenching into a classic blue and white porcelain, the hazy azure jump in front of the eyes, the rain lane meet and miss the shoulder solidified forever, the sadness of an oil paper umbrella propped up like a dream of nostalgia. Misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River, falling flowers into war, the tenderness of wind and rain was written into lines of poetry, recited into the most beautiful scenery in spring in the looking back of time, and lightly read into persistent sadness in the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River.
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