I heard that there is a colorful cloud in full bloom on the other side of the mountain. Whenever the morning glow or evening dew reflects the sky and wet flowers and plants, she will sing to the sky, lark, and talk with the wind.
I live at the foot of the mountain, often drink mountain water, such as glass through my door, in the strange stone stand in the middle of the stream, the moonlight is the darling of the river, constantly broken and round, round and scattered, a basin of sand jumping bright soul, that blooming in the middle of the water, is the shadow cast by colorful clouds, I am dull, play the piano to the stream, and then bright voice, just want to arouse the resonance of another cloud.
It was a changeable cloud, and I often wanted to pursue it over the mountains between seeing it and not seeing it, and it was warned that the beasts there were the most dangerous.
I said, empty mountain is the most dangerous.
In addition to the extremely disappointing emptiness in the world, even if there is still a grain of dust floating in life, it is a seed of hope, the danger of empty mountains, because it shows the loneliness of life, the road of walking alone, and the beast is the sharp sword of inner hesitation. When the mountain is dangerous again, knowing that there is wind and rain, then you will see colorful clouds and sunset dew, joy and hope on the same road, but one after another and left and right.
However, will you wait for me there with Meilai, which reflects the sunset? I have heard the sound of mountain birds flapping their wings. They take off from your mountain village, shake off the fine dust of every feather, then spread out and fly to my sky, turning and drawing a beautiful arc at that canyon. Is that your figure? I seem to see the moist you, compatible with my pulse.
The blue flowers and plants in the stone gap in front of my door, driven by the first spring breeze, opened several buds. Before she earned the posture of the flowers, I set off to your village. The dry food is the fruit falling from the trees behind the house. I will go up the river to make an appointment with you.
Do you remember the first letter you sent to me when white pervaded the world last year? you said that when the flowers were in full bloom, we would listen to the first song of spring birds returning to the forest.
I fantasize that you must sit and smile, no one can see that you are swimming ten miles away, and no one can understand the tears of joy on your face. Of course, you want to lose your voice in pain, and no one understands your desolation after the wind and moon.
I am a wandering person, since the wind brought me to the foot of the mountain, I have become a seed, always want to take root and blossom, but always can not do so, not because of lack of wind and rain, you should know, no matter how strong the story, there must be love as a moistening pen, my heart withered, like a rut fish can not breathe.
At that moment, I stared at a pair of dry eyes and watched your liquid flow into my eyes, and then burst out of my eyes. You asked me if I was crying.
How can I be so sad, it is only you give the warmth, I so let the mood flood into a river.
Sometimes, you laugh at the purity of a touch of flower dew, contain everything in the sun, let other people's shadow live in your body, and you laugh at yourself, originally empty and hollowed out, but reflect the wind and the appearance of the sun in the dirty worldly language, the shape of the wind, the color of the day, are relentlessly captive to you.
This may be the reason why you were sad on top of my head that day, and you helped me to think of you.
I went up, the azaleas gave an impressive cry, the mimosa dared to caress my bare feet, the long wings of the mountain eagle against the air, the hairiness as hard as a needle, unyielding hovering, who is his next woman, who is his next delicacy?
I am not a mountain eagle, you must not be my delicacy, but you are my girl. When I eat the first fruit, I prepare the last one. Will you see me? Before I found you.
Although there are a lot of hate, is born with bad roots, hate cold and warm, hate how many people in the world, simply hate a tree in the way, such as a third person who squeezes into the house.
Today, I write a lot of things, there is no fruit to eat, maybe the journey to continue tomorrow will come to an abrupt end, maybe tonight I will dry the canyon, that hovering mountain eagle has been watching covetously, I am not his woman after all, I am just a delicious meal in the mouth of others.
Still did not see you, I thought I would insist, but lost the way, over the years, missed the years; I thought I would drink for food, unremitting, but still fell on the hungry road, sick and died.
You are a colorful cloud behind the mountain, I just heard that if it is true, I would like to have a love affair with you, when I am not old, for the rest of my life.
Can you wait for me?
Author: Xiao Ai