A ray of sorrow, a night of sorrow

The vicissitudes of life, the sun and the moon are like a shuttle, there is too much helplessness in the world, and entering the dust is like falling into a sea of smoke. Pen? Interesting? Pavilion wWw. ｂiquge。 ｉｎfo

Once upon a time, childhood was always so hearty, but now it has long been bathed in wind and rain, swallowing and crying, and from time to time in vain.

Whenever we are children, we may be young, or in the past, but time is fleeting.

The red dust trek, looking back, has long been like the tide of wind and moon, the moon is short of people scattered, but the flowers have not bloomed again.

Through the wind and snow, through the four seasons, cruising between the seven colors of light, suddenly understood that this is just a sea of smoke.

Hearing the sound of the piano, I don't understand the fragrance of the red sleeves, the joys and sorrows of the world, and add a touch of vicissitudes.

Leave yourself blank, don't let trivialities mess with your heart, and don't worry about life and life.

Life sometimes needs to be free and easy, not asking how many things in the world, but the wind and rain are more fun.

Don't seek fame in a lifetime, the scenery of the four seasons is always different, and the sound of long water turns empty.

Life is not perfect in the world, the world is bright and charming, and the heart is as quiet as an orchid.

You are a woman with flowers in your clothes, with dark fragrance and sleeves, lying on the bamboo and listening to the rain, just watching the white clouds.

There was once Zhuang Zhou's dream butterfly, like a dream, like a fantasy, and finally it was Zhuang Zhou.

Time is like sand, and if you can't hold it, she will be raised, a glance and a thought are eternal, and a sorrow and joy will eventually become empty.

A green lamp, a fragment of a hand, the desolate old dreams are endless, and the world cannot be seen clearly, so you can only plant fireworks in the world on the stalk of memory.

Drink in the afternoon, slightly drunk on the pillow, half-asleep and half-awake, believe in the reins, complain about the breeze and water, and listen to it as if intoxicated.

The world is unfathomable loneliness, a sea of suffering, and it is said that the sea of bitterness has the grace of flowing deep souls, and it cannot be told in words.

May time slow down, don't let spring come and go early, leaving only the ground full of mountains, dark fragrance and shadows.

The dust in the world is moistened with soil, the spring breeze blows, flowers and fruits, no need to force, it is inconvenient to say more, wait for time to make a pot of spring, and pour it gently.

The can't tell the sheng flute, can't penetrate the heart wall, the soul is ethereal, and the years are boundless.

Thoughts are wandering, watching the moon rise, watching the flowers fall, leaning alone against the window, the loneliness is difficult to hide, and the twilight spreads.

Today's variety, like water without a trace, the sea has changed, the sun and the moon are dim, just like the autumn of the next world has cooled.

In the depths of the shadow of the flowers, the smoke and water are cold, looking at the red dust and sighing lightly, I don't remember the cool early summer.

Alone on the floor smoke to the moon, a thought of persistence, can not be exchanged for a reincarnation, toast to the moon, appreciate the moon and chant the wind.

The wind and the waning moon, people can't sleep, relax my heart, and see the loneliness of the world.

The dark incense is surging, people's hearts are confused, they are melancholy about wine, and they are helpless to indulge in the world.

Going against the current into a river, waiting in vain, knocking on the door in the night rain, how to fight the Jiangnan meteor.

My heart is lonely, I can't see through, and I look at the rivers and lakes, so it's better to appreciate the world.

sighed lightly, smiled in his heart, regardless of life and death, and wore a glass of wine through his intestines for several years.

The world at your fingertips, two lines of tears, a few people on the journey, looking back on thousands of miles.

The eyes are cold and frosty, the fog is resting, and I can't help it, is it the third life of memories.

Pale and young, eating delicacies, the dust has settled, and the gray hair in front of the mirror is left.

The past is thick and thin, the lock is clear and autumn, the road is full of incense, and the courtyard is full of sycamores.

The years are pale, the sorrow is not over, and he quietly turns around, only the starlight on the horizon.

Xiao Xiao twilight, sorrowful, eyebrows lock feelings, Fosang fine leaves are newly cut.

The flowers are blooming, the night is beautiful, the dust is cold and fragrant, and the destination is ethereal.

Sorrow is not over, the ink has dried, a lamp of sorrow, a night of sorrow, mandala flowers, lonely autumn dreams, no words, if you say that loneliness can be drunk, a lifetime of posture, waiting for the years to lock sorrow.

It's better to have a poem: "Life is not satisfactory in the world, and the Ming Dynasty spreads flat boats." ”

Or: "Life must be happy, don't make the gold bottle to the empty moon." ”