The moon is bright and the stars are scarce, the cool breeze is blowing, the flowers are blooming in half summer, and the catkins are flying. The night in the hot summer is always open, and I like to pick up pleasant words in the light ink night, piece together a paragraph, and copy a poem. I often ask for flowers and willows between the lines, often walk alone in the country of words, brew a poem in my heart, give the meaning of the poem in your name, and crown the essence of the poem with my surname.

A curtain of the moon, worried about the heart, leaning on the building to listen to the wind, more worried. I am a person who falls in love with the fragrance of ink, in my spare time, I hold a plain pen, twist a plain note, roll up my sleeves to study ink, dip a sum of gold Jiao; A few ferries, poetry and wine take advantage of the youth. You are a poem under my pen, I am familiar with it in my heart, you are a bright moon in front of my jade case, and I am a lonely widow and a widow.

Mention a lamp of time, listen to the quiet IELTS, the story of things, watch the moon and the chicks, and the style. Hold a volume of your poetry recitation, twilight streamer, sleep in an old poem that has been over the years, sandwich yourself in the title page, and wait for you with the most beautiful posture. With each passing day, I heard the sound of the wind, so I took advantage of the lyricism of the scenery to call your name in the name of the wind. Some past feelings, riding the wind, arrived here. A lonely city and ten thousand mountains, the world is in an uproar, the lonely fang appreciates itself, drinks alone under the moon, and a bottle of sake is only old.

The remnants of the night are still vaguely dreamy, and the chapter is scattered under the moon. The melodious evening breeze blows, plucking the strings of the years, the melodious rhythm wraps around the bed to make green plums, and the quiet night sky spreads with worry. Fingertips run across the silent heart, picking up yellowed old things. The book of time staggers and records the warmth of the past, and when you look back, there is always a little joy and a little sadness, joy or sadness.

A clear sound, the strings are cold and acacia is crystal clear. Memories like smoke, in the depths bleached by time, the heart rolls up wisps of melancholy sighs. The frailty of the fingertips flowing, leaving some reluctance, stopped shallowly but deeply attached to the bottom of the heart. A twisted and fragmented relationship will eventually leave an unrelieved trace in my heart, so let the past drift away with the dust and smoke in plain ink and water, leaving this painful and sweet intersection as a memory.

Falling is the dance of flowers, and falling is my posture. The curtain rolls the west wind, the people of Iraq go, the moonlight falls into the city, and the king watches. The passing years are still the same, but without your tenderness, and with the sun and the moon, only without your company. What bits and pieces of heart words, like petals falling in the wind in the distant city. The wind rises and falls, the thoughts become disasters, twist up a maple leaf and write a text, that is my message to you.

Lovers whisper, nowhere to remember, paragraph paragraph Qianyu engraved in the heart, the left hand paints the heart, the right hand paints you, inviting you into the poem. The moon shadow overlaps, and the song of Hengxiao sends away the joy; looking at the moon is far away, and the wisps of ink fragrance surround the southern city. Time is still the same, I miss you as before, the bright moon sends lovesickness for thousands of miles, and the prosperity scatters the fragrant dust. Thou hast said, "As long as I do not leave, thou shalt not forsake thee." Thou hast said, "As long as I love, thou hast always been." Smoke and rain and red dust, the years have passed, there is always less gathering and more separation, and there is no one who can speak clearly about love.

The name that has been buried in my heart for several years will always inadvertently float in my mind, and the looming sadness will be overwhelming, but after a period of turmoil, it is so prosaic. Walking through the bridge of time and stepping on the tunnel of time, I have been on the pious ferry for you to have a touch of thought.

The wind is traceless, the moon is groaning, the shadow is reflected, and the person is thin. Sigh and regret the day, three thousand red dust dreams in the total Chanjuan, the sunset is decadent, the dream is far away from crying, and the vast sea of clouds is quiet and charming. I miss the years and lose weight. Actually, I didn't miss you very much, I really didn't miss you very much, I just wrote you into my poems. Ink-dyed Jinnian, it is you who rhyme my cardamom years, and Qianqian Hongchen, it is you who render my landscape ink paintings.

The wings of time, day and night. The fragrance of the years, light and faint, fragrant the season, drunk years. The four seasons are fluttering, the smoke and rain are slanting, and if the flowers bloom with affection, then are the years safe and worry-free? If the copying is pathetic, then a piece of text may only move oneself. A season of flowers, a wisp of ink, a spring dream, haggard face, amazing the passing year. The ink rhyme is dead, and the years are fragrant.