Low eyebrow, pick up a smile of years
Talk and laugh at your fingertips
The age is mild, fleeting like smoke, wisps of light, showing a float in the wind. Open the dusty words box, inside there is no small talk, talk, only a quiet silence left behind. Now, counting the dusty dribs and drabs, looking at the bleak figure in the vastness, there is a touch of yellowing warmth in the memory. Low eyebrow, pick up a smile of the years, around the clear track of the years, flowing season after season. Those who want to retain their faces are brought with obscure shackles, such as the gentle and clear sound of Xiao, sobbing and falling into the dust. Do not feel the dream of spring grass in the pond, the autumn sound of the plane leaves in front of the steps. The scenery of life is always half sad and half bright. Where has all the time gone? I'm getting old before I feel young.
In a certain morning, I suddenly found some shallow wrinkles in the corner of my eye when I looked in the mirror; one day I suddenly found that I had lost my youthful lightness; on something, I suddenly found that I had lost my old passion; at some point, I suddenly saw a gray in my hair standing at the intersection of time, looking at the crowd coming and going day and night. It turns out that walking has come to the time that I can't afford to play; Oh! It turns out that the leisurely time has almost passed in the twinkling of an eye. Quiet intersection, faint time, a flash, a day, a season, a year passed. Perhaps, I will still wander, will also be immersed in their own world, confused looking for their own figure, aftertaste of the past bit by bit of time. But I never knew that this time was drifting away from my fingertips, quietly without a trace. So where did all the time scattered on the ground go? And how many are not reconciled, do not admit defeat, in the passage of time resolutely disappeared?
Unfold my memory, like a light dust seal, everything, every piece, remember vividly. I sigh the ruthlessness of these years, I feel the twists and turns of life. This life, ah, like the water of the Yangtze River, flows eastward and flows endlessly. This life, ah, like the light of autumn, no matter how luxuriant or prosperous you are at the beginning, the branches and leaves will wither after all. Where does life come from and where does it go? Oh, the original is, come in a hurry, go in a hurry, no one can stop the passage of time, I can not hold back the rings of prosperity. I can only sigh silently, only sigh, only mourning, only pity. I quietly pick up the leaves of these years, one, two, three want to build the fence of my life. How much I want to cover up the merciless loss of life, but the one in the cover will eventually dream away and be separated from the waves of memory of the past. Parting this, parting this sad pain, parting this is like water tenderness.
In the long river of time, I have had how many warm encounters and how many times of cold melancholy parting. Whose love fascinates whose eyes, whose memory warms whose face. In the fleeting years, looking forward to every spring blossom, in the spring flowers and autumn fall, looking forward to the years of static and full moon. Two lights in the sun and moon, a dream in Spring and Autumn, nothing but ups and downs in the world of mortals, impermanence in life, nothing but gathering and dispersing in love, and a beautiful face is only the bloom of a hundred years later. Over the years, the sound days gradually fade away, igniting a person's loneliness, the last few years in central China that piece of thin memory, as if dismayed heart, but always difficult to be at ease, because you can not forget the laughing and happy people and things in the past? It doesn't seem to be. In the day by day, in the pages of mournful words, in the cup of lingering past, a melancholy every day, a share of reluctant thoughts, in the depths of memory, warm fleeting, always stay in the heart. The feeling hovers in the dream, the dream falls asleep in the love, through the time between the fingers, only the scenery in the heart is the constant of life.
In the past and now, the ruthless passage of time, can never go back to the past, never go back to the past. Only memories, only a few words of memory to fill my life, only shadowy memories to enrich my future. I am secretly sad, secretly painful, and finally, hide the pain under the fallen leaves, and cover the pain in the shadow of the fallen leaves. Open the fallen leaves, see that is my injury, that is my pain, that is my former figure. Perhaps so owe, this life can not be returned, this life can not be erased. I know that I am old, otherwise I will not indulge in the memories of the past, the memory in my heart is like a gully, like a beam, like a hill, like a hillside. Ohh! I can't climb it, I can't cross it, I can't cross the mountains of my heart, I can't climb the towering mountains of my heart. Reading and appreciation of American articles
Quietly, another year goes by. Gently, gently, life is a year away. In the silence and silence, time is lost bit by bit, leaving no cloud shadow, not taking away a breath. Now even the memories, more and more blurred, more and more shallow, only in the dead of night or alone time, will suddenly remember. Those old time, have gone through countless today, far away every inch of time, are engraved with their own footprints. Okay! The road we have traveled, the things we have encountered, and the people we have missed all put it in the old days. Looking back, the memories that grew up at the beginning. Then study a pool of ink, pick up a piece of ink, write about the old days, and bind it into a piece of paper, leaving a trace of warmth and a touch of green for the days in the rocking chair.
The shore of time, do not need to follow the trail of the past, I will still be safe and sound. Wen a pot of fleeting years like water, reference a quiet Enron, so that the years relieved of those crying, pain of the shortcomings. Ying Yi Huai indifferent, hold a sleeve calmly, promise yourself a peace of mind. Fingertips tapping gently, there is always a faint fragrance, swaying in the depths of the world, there is always a trace of intimate warmth. Low eyebrow, pick up a smile of years, from then on, will be light years, quietly waiting! After thousands of sails have passed, the days are still bustling, leaving my heart outside the world of mortals, standing in my own corner, with a touch of years in Enron, looking lightly at spring and autumn, flowers bloom and fall, so that life is as quiet and beautiful as flowers!
Brief introduction of the author: talking and laughing at the fingertips of articles, poetry is more common in newspapers and periodicals and network platforms inside and outside the province. Like to write every bit of the day into the text, express the dream in my heart, always maintain an optimistic attitude, live every day well.
Read the first beautiful article in this article.
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