Fireworks, cool year

Missed the flowers full of branches, missed a bottle of autumn water, missed the time around fireworks, but always do not want to miss you.

Some, this is the fate of love, gentle and humble, do not owe each other.

Inadvertently meet, and missed how many years in full bloom, flirtatious Pingting, and woke up whose curtain of dreams? You, have passed my city, or I, have fallen into your words.

No matter where you are, I will wait for you, come and go, are warm, far and near, are merciful.

Just because of the mountains and rivers that we have walked through together.

Order

(1)

The cool fireworks are lonely after all. Like the flowers in June, enchanting and stunning, gorgeous and dazzling, but finally still want to mourn the United States of depravity, is a kind of deep bone marrow cool.

It is often said that people are cooler than fireworks, but quietly for a long time, then how cool dripping into the fingertips, gradually spread into the heart, ash a warm, silent, Enron.

In the end, this love is difficult to send, Acacia has never been idle. I wish, such as the fireworks, only after a moment of prosperity, then fell into the world. In that dazzling moment, even if no one applauded for me, no one cheered for me, still dancing alone with the moon, leaving the lonely shadow messy and sad in the midnight reincarnation.

At least for that moment, I was happy.

(II)

After all, I am afraid of the desolation of the dust, like the fireworks, but will also be sentimental.

Nothing can't be changed, just like nothing is worth changing.

In the wind, listening to that song, according to the face that has not changed when I first saw it.

Fleeting, is a string of rosary, sound echo, trembling the heart of the mutual acquaintance, tearing the Acacia lake que whisper.

The flowers have not yet fallen, the distant mountains are slightly green, and the place where the smoke waves flow, is still the end of the dust fragrance caused by the wind. The fate of the dust is like water, how many legends of plain silk and white moonlight.

I am still in the ferry of memories, singing the sweet words of love and twists and turns, just to meet you again.

(3)

Always feel that the sky of this season is a little cold, with some cold mountains and water thin cool, people inadvertently will be lost in the sudden reunion of time.

Since the harp rises, why is my Sheng silent? write a poem in that small leaf and send it to you. The dense lines are the traces that I miss you.

When the last autumn leaf also floated in the wind, I finally stood there, the cold wind blowing, sour eyes, but only tears, with you, waving goodbye.

Still standing on the platform, bent down, tears along the sad heart, in the wind, healing, broken. A few remnant leaves, still spinning in mid-air, trembling, have already turned the warmth of the years.

Now, what is left? Suddenly feel, this season, very long, really very long.

Goodbye, this city, goodbye, this winter.

(restaurant)

Think to this world, there will be a person, and you in the old court, meet Huai Su and sit, two cups of scented tea, four eyes look at each other, silent, better to speak.

With you in the indulgence of fireworks freehand brushwork, in the faint snow to listen to Zen. Yuanlai, silver bowl Sheng Xue Xiao Qingning, small red mud stove burning red, sit on your knees, lips and teeth depend on each other, so deep, so warm.

Call a heart gently in the plain silk of winter. How could I forget your merciful face when the fishing song was sung at night in the setting sun?

Sometimes, I yearn for a piece of time, half holding the tenderness of plain language, meeting without words, only putting joy in the depths of my heart, half bright and half sad.

What I want is a simple life, a vulgar in the depths of fireworks, a vulgar with the fragrance of medicine, which is difficult to give up. Although it is not as elegant as the bamboo house in the courtyard, it does not have a kind of deep feeling in the mirror.

Just want to stay until the cycle of time, time tosses and turns. I can still be in the old house, brewing tea, reading poems, waiting for that, distant return, it is also very good.

(Wu)

Time is a quiet word, simple and clean, with a taste of cappuccino and a touch of sweetness hidden in bitterness, which is extremely addictive.

Often think, the old time is what kind of intriguing, is the mountain wood wood branch, or a song Weiyang song, this rise, then Fu, always so distressing.

Perhaps, it is a very simple, but also exudes the warmth of the world, can not be refined, but also vulgar can not give up, like Zhang ailing, but also like Lin Huiyin.

Like the white fireworks that Xue Xiao Zen said, they are always so short, so cold, so cold.

Holding a book of time, leaning quietly in the fashionable late autumn, with a thin pen, the warmth of swallows holding mud to build nests in the ancient Zen monastery was written into a simple time.

And with Qingning, in the silver bowl, draw the mountains and rivers of light and shadow.

One day, walking in the breeze, in the vegetation of a deep palace and ancient hall, see a white fox, hiding in the desolate mountains and forests, and listen to the end if it is just like the first time, and the autumn wind paints a fan.

The deepest fireworks, the tide of the years, even if the dust is drifting away, even if the Qinhuai moon is as cool as water, falling plum snow language, ancient meaning in the clouds, because of you, flowers will no longer be a nuisance.

Meditation in the past, meditation, incense, secret blooming Acacia, no longer drifting, only can hear the voice of affection, looking back on the years, miss and do not read the lingering, is still the most gorgeous fireworks in the depths of time, the legend of not old.

The tired sky, still the same, opened a charming fireworks, once better than once. Alone, quietly looking at the fireworks on the other side, lonely and peaceful.

Close your eyes, let the fireworks bloom again, let Jane Su's heart go out of her youth. The notes in the tears of the stars, once so joyful, are now low and unaudible.

Perhaps, the loneliest time is watching fireworks alone. Those who like butterfly wings cruising in the remnants of the night, how many degrees will it come to an end?

How many cold and warm floating dust, a few strings of melancholy in silence, is the endless future of the years?

Let's go on like this, there are no fireworks on the other side, and the road to prosperity is lonely.

(read) how many thoughts there have been, in Dai's blue memories, in line with the pious fate of the eyebrow and heart, full of the gaudy silence in the rift of years.

Fireworks, cool years, silent, only words, warm whispers.

Recorded at the end, thought to read.

Text: outlying islands sad QQ:1035917996