Spring comes in March, and the flowers are in full bloom.

What kind of beauty can a flower be?

We linger in spring, the warm breeze, poured out the world's flowers, in every place of the red pavilion, in every period of time, but also to the beauty of spring, illusion into colorful fog.

The journey of a flower over the season, those blooming flowers, fluttering fragrances, and disappearing deaths, in the splendid time of the first bloom of flowers, are already secretly lurking, hiding the future patterns and landscapes.

Rolling red dust, we are used to hurrying our minds. So in early spring, mid-spring and late spring, I hastily walked through the life of flowers. Plum powder fades makeup, new red begonia. After the lazy evening rain, Tumi is dripping all the way, and the flowers are already hearty.

We don't know that the silence of a flower, the world of a flower, is the real theme of that spring.

A willow flute break disrupted the heartbeat of a peach blossom on the branches. Awakened, a thousand years of sleepiness in the peach poem. The delicate flowers could not withstand the agitation of the spring wind, so they became two loves, lingering throughout the spring.

Magnolia wooden pen, young flowers. A show pipe, with heaven and earth as a note, dipped in the breeze, wrote down whose stop and watch? Detailing the vicissitudes of time? When the dew is in full bloom, have we ever cared that a flower will bloom so powerfully!

So the butterflies flocked to it, and the stamen became a pulp.

Is it peachy and seductive? Is it the sweet fragrance of the flower heart? Is it the flower brewed by frost and bitter cold, which attracts the greedy heart, so it provokes bees and butterflies to plunder the powder and take away the fragrance? Waving his jaw and picking his teeth, iron mouth and steel teeth, enjoying this gluttonous flower feast. Queen Bee, but the fishing is yellow? Sitting on the anointed grain?

The wind blows desolation.

The marauder enjoyed the Qiongfang at the bottom of the stamen, and the death of the flowers. In the corner of the world, the branches of the bright moon, gradually sounded the evening song of returning, in the thin wind of spring twilight, comforting the drift and loneliness of a spring heart.

At this point, the mind has become a mystery.

But the Chujiang River is far away, and our minds can't climb the thousand-year-old fence to pick up a remnant of red under Luojia Mountain? Or is it the wind and smoke of the dust, confusing the way, we are finally difficult to trace the beauty of Jincheng? After a night of spring rain, it still can't be broken, and the green willows of the post house.

Our eyes, impetuous in the spring, our discernment, superficial in ourselves. Can't see through, can't see through, this is actually a flower, belongs to the season of a leaf. We thought that the flowers blooming and falling one after another, and the song on the shore of the winding water, could sing the eternal spring sorrow to the fullest. But I don't know that it is the weak body of each flower that has achieved the mighty spring of wealth.

Flowers, ants and mayflies, please let me sing for you.

Lose the branches of the flowers, and the season will be here, cocooning into a scar. We who are accustomed to being unrighteous will soon chase the coolness of the next season. At this time, the sorrow in front of me will soon be forgotten in the bottom of my heart. So, flowers, who will treasure you deeply?

Allow me to boil a pot of old tea, and build a mound of flowers under your muddy tree. Liuxia is a coffin, the breeze becomes a coffin, I drink tea to make wine, in the city where the flute is quiet, bury your pain in the depths of the overlapping flowers and shadows?

The wind rises, a touch of warmth of time, the fragrance of a cup of tea, maybe it can warm me, the cold and hateful at this time. The sideburns in the tea smoke, remembering the past years, I ignored the day and night, and slept with my clothes together......