The years are slight, and there is always a tranquility of one's own; Time is very light, as if it can't keep the dust of the floating past; On the red dust, there is always a fragrance that belongs to you. The memories of the years always come quietly in the quiet time, so that you don't have time to reminisce about the wild flowers and grass in the spring, and you have already entered the dream of the years with the fragrance of blooming.

The years have led the corners of the season's clothes, and have stepped into the threshold of spring, the wind has warmed, the flowers have bloomed, and in the blink of an eye, the flowers of the season have been buried in the dust.

The world is impermanent, I have experienced too much of the past, and my heart is already in the ordinary fireworks, revealing a slight coolness. Through the memories of time, the quiet time is still so elegant, and the indifferent scenery is still so quiet and beautiful through the words. Let the heart unload the burden in the hustle and bustle, let the soul walk in the fireworks, let the time fly, I smile and am safe.

Calm down, read books, enjoy flowers, listen to music, face the years without talking about joys and sorrows, wipe the window of your heart in the tranquility, raise your hand and drop your hand, understand the growth of the warbler and the grass, smile calmly in the mortal dust, and meditate like water in time.

Time is shallow in the end, and I can't get rid of my emotions, and in a short time, sprouts of hope. Then, when a season comes, those petals are withered, and time will eventually blur the scenery of the season. Looking at the clouds, it is already the season of purple and red, and the wind and clouds of the season are also blue and white.

The years are shallow, and those shallow but eternal, like a firework, brilliant for a moment, but it has become an eternal eternity, a lifetime of enthusiasm for a moment of affection, intense, enchanting and gorgeous, love, hope, happiness.

In life, there are always some old things, at the end of the years; There are always seasons when the land is full of sorrow. In the strangeness of life, there is too much melancholy on my back. Listen to the wind lightly and enjoy the rain leisurely. The years are like the sand at the fingertips, occasionally listening to the heart's words, and occasionally interspersing some helplessness. Grabbing the hourglass and scratching it across the skin, it woke up a faint pain. The years have passed, and the years have quicksand. Not aesthetic but mood, not vicissitudes but calm, walking through the scenery that does not belong to you. Lookout, look back, brush away impetuousness, wind and rain, flowers, some red dust disturbances. Don't miss the warm time in the passing year, the shade is appropriate, and the distance is safe, which is the best mode of life.

Time flies, and the years are like flowers. After a season of winter cold, we stepped into the bright spring. Looking back, last year and today, it seems that it is only separated by a layer of cicada wings, but the wheel of years has licked again. Slowly, slowly, the time will be extended, let us in the yellowed memory with the sunshine, with the years, the reversal of the passing years. The sunlight outside the window is just right, and the mood is so momentary, faint and warm, shallow and happy. Looking back at a long time, even if no one reads it, there will be a heart-wrenching flower event, which will bloom from the fullest.

Gently open the window, and precipitate the memory of a flower in the context of time. Inadvertently, it slipped from the fingertips and slipped away quietly, like an amazing epiphany, before I was surprised, it was already a snap of my fingers, a season of smoke and rain, a curtain of dreams. The years are mottled, the breeze is lonely, and there are some old poems hidden. Gently brush away the rust of the past smoke clouds, and let the thoughts float in the flowers and plants.

Stepping on the footsteps of the years, the years fall behind him day by day, strolling through the red dust, looking back, the original once bright and brilliant, but a cloud of smoke. In the end, everyone's life will be dull and ordinary. The years of rush are always so long and so flawless. Put the warmest memory in the text, not alienated, not deliberate, faint as smoke, express a poem, let the thoughts be in the center of the poem, the left towards the court, the right twilight, the warm sunshine, dried the dampness derived from the smoke and rain, in the window lattice of the falling rain, quietly waiting, watching the flowers bloom and fall in a season.