Chapter 299: It's Time to Die (7)

In the quiet night, I gradually lost myself, and my thoughts flew in the air at will. Pen | fun | pavilion www. ｂｉｑｕｇｅ。 The distant aftersound of info will induce a faint longing in the bottom of my heart. Every night when I return with my long and short shadow, I always think that you will suddenly appear around the corner on the way home, stepping on a small hope, and every step is like dancing on the tip of your heart......

Missing is best faint and becomes a permanent support for hope. But I just want to give all my patience to survive this long night and embrace a better tomorrow. At this time, the low and soothing music is like a glass of rich red wine, drunk but can taste the taste of longing.

At sunset, the sunset flowers bloom, and everything is painted in a warm yellow color. The birds are tired, write flowing notes in the sky, and gather their wings to return to their nests. The sunset is accompanied by temperament, changing graceful dancing, and the skirt is flying. My little heart, like a lonely empty city, finally opened the copper lock with red rust. A person leans against the window, intoxicated with the beauty of the sunset, quiet and warm; The mood is like cinnamon, and the wisps are fragrant. With a fantasy, a kind of melancholy, gazing into the distance, constantly knocking on the door of the heavy heart, asking; For a long time, for a long time......

Hidden in the city, I often sigh at the loneliness and helplessness of the sunset. At this time, the smoke of the cooking in the distant countryside curled, and the background of tranquility gradually faded in the haze. It's just that the traffic in front of me is still like a river, and the asphalt road is dotted with a little starlight, turning around in the criss-crossing lines. The setting sun has long since been unable to suppress its hustle and bustle, and the bustling streets outline the aftermath of confusion and unease.

Just like this afternoon, leaning alone against the window, talking to the sunset with autumn thoughts. Holding a cup of tea in hand, watch the leaves tumble in the boiling water and finally fall to the bottom. The faint mellow fragrance is elegant, falling on the sideburns, and also infiltrating this full of autumn feelings. The autumn wind spreads the rhyme, like the silk and bamboo music in the south of the Yangtze River, and slowly turns into a strong feeling. In the depths of the clouds, I gently picked up my thoughts, and the mischievous sunset squeezed in, like red spirits, drunk me in my own imaginary pictures, for a long time, unwilling to sober up.

I once fantasized that I was an excellent poet, carrying half a volume of clear words, using an ancient inkstone, gently grinding the smoke and clouds of the world, letting the ink flowers fly, purple and unfamiliar incense, and freehand a poem of longing for the south of the Yangtze River. Maybe Jiang Nan is a tailor, and he has sewn a complex in my bones in my previous life, so my love for it is innate and I have no resistance. In this life, she has become an amorous woman, a literati and ink writer, who always likes to use a wisp of poetry to travel between Chu Ci and Han Fu and Tang and Song poems to find the poetic Jiangnan in her heart. Slightly because of the exhaustion of the soul, the eyebrows actually provoked the thought - to travel alone, wandering.

Carrying his bags and carrying a touch of willow color, he came to the ancient ferry port in Xiangxi to find the border city of his dreams. Standing on the Hongqiao, listen to the sound of the blue water flowing under the bridge, as if time has passed. Looking at the majestic Nanhua Mountain in the distance, there is perseverance in the calmness, and in the spring and autumn of the coming and going, it seems to have a silent dialogue with the mountains and rivers of the phoenix. The Tuojiang River is filled with a swirling milk mist, and the slender man who rocks the oars supports the busy boats and rows through the charm of the ancient city yesterday. Did the girl of the Miao family lean on the window lattice of the stilted building, salvaging the gentle rural water with her eyes, but unintentionally decorating the dream of people watching the scenery on the bridge. Or, walk on the wet bluestone road with a bamboo basket in your hand, humming a pure tune; Or go to the bow of the boat with her husband and sing a beautiful fishing ballad.

It seems that there is a period of wet youth, once wandering in the long alleys of Wuzhen. In the misty time, waiting to meet a girl wearing blue calico, the daughter of the Lin family written by Mao Dun. I saw her put together the Bizhulan umbrella, walked through every long street and alley, with the grace of the south of the Yangtze River, with the charm of the water town, and the footprints of passers-by, stepped into the withered door panel, and disappeared into my breath-like gaze. The quaint old things, between the black tiles and white walls, depict the mottled annual rings of Wuzhen. There are many lonely stories of wooden doors, which have been sealed by the yellowing years. On the misty and rainy embankment, who is it that depicts the reflection of the thoughts in the shape of sorrow? Walking through this plain and subtle scenery, I would rather be an idler who lives in a quiet place, sip a pot of tea, listen to a song, and throw away the streamer.

The small bridge flows, the fishing boat sings at night, in this rippling blue waves, I hold a penny, carrying the nostalgic sadness, sighing all the way, and settling all the way with the melancholy of resentment......

In the reverie picture, looking for the poetic Jiangnan, I have to mention the West Lake in Hangzhou. The boundless wind and moon of the clear water is like a fresh and elegant ink painting. In my impression, it is always soaked in confused imagery. Lake smoke, tower shadow, small bridge, cloister, pavilions, Huansha village girl, frolicking children...... I walked to the west end of the white causeway, alone, boiled a pot of Hangzhou white chrysanthemum, carried a fragrance, boiled my heart into a long-lasting and elegant fragrance, and sat leisurely under the sunset. Look up, the sunset is like blood; Bow your head, the water waves sway, and a lake is polluted. The willow smoke was ethereal, looming, as if I saw that on the West Lake, the beautiful Su Xiaoxiao of Nanqi got off the oil wall car, and walked with the fine steps of Qinglian to me. There is also a small bridge with an old atmosphere, but it is empty and indifferent, faintly romantic with Bai Suzhen and Xu Xian.

Who is it in the autumn breeze with the warmth of the sunset, implicitly weaving the sorrow of crossing the south of the Yangtze River? Fantasizing about going to the water town in my dream, looking at the blue water painting boat, the Zhouzhuang of the pillow Ke family, it is like a girl with a veil, with a legendary color, and like an elegant blue and white porcelain vase, collecting the splendid elegance of the green green mountains. Under the guidance of the old woman, I walked up the delicate and smooth stone steps to the wooden building and listened to them sing a Kunqu opera of "Dream in the Garden". Or go to Huizhou in ink and wash to see the quaint ruins of the previous dynasty - the archways that symbolize the filial sons of loyal ministers and martyrs are soaked in the old fragrance of history in the wind and rain; Look at the ancient well that has nourished the people of Huizhou for generations, and transformed into their blood bit by bit; There is also the Huizhou ancestral hall, which is full of the long and thick clan culture, and a touch of ink-like thoughts sink on the ancient stage. Or go to the lonely Shen Garden to remember Lu You, a talented man in the south of the Yangtze River, and Tang Wan, an amorous woman......

When the sunset ends, the fragrance of tea lingers on the orchid fingers, and the drunk sunset brings the bright moon. A light cool breeze washes away the dust of the world; The Yiren near the window are still as quiet as a quiet orchid. Xu is because of the reunion of Chongyang, and the nostalgia for the old things is even more solemn, yearning for the flowing Jiangnan and the Shuiyun Township in the dream. Recalling the past, I always like to use a little plum heart, half a bamboo rhyme, and a few loose bones to express my nostalgia for my hometown. And often with a melancholy and free and easy mood, constantly asking the heart, what should life be like?

(To be continued.) )