During the Qingming Festival, weeping willows Yiyi, continuous rain. The paper ash flies into a white butterfly, and the tears and blood dye into a red cuckoo.
The nostalgia and remembrance all over the mountains are covered with the branches of green willows. Bleak spring breeze, bleak, bleak and distant memories; cool title rain, patter, wrapped with thick but not old feelings, confused the footsteps of pedestrians. The outskirts of the wild, but hear the resentful Ai Xiang, do not see the peach red apricot white prosperity.
Hold a pious heart and pay homage to the ancestors who have slept forever. A spade of loess is covered with a layer of sorrow; a clump of new branches is planted and a cavity is planted for memory. Teardrops to Qingzuka, a little bit of the past haunts my mind. In the past, sporadic tidbits, in this special season, suddenly precious, sad place, can be painful to the heart. Reluctant to give up, sad, melancholy, all kinds of complex come one after another, colorful rising ghost paper fireworks.
A pile of tombs, a book, a tombstone, a masterpiece. The sweet grass conceals many sad stories, and how many moving legends are buried in the pile of loess. Once owned and abandoned, ran away; once nobles and humble, disappeared. Yellowing and brittle past, an inch away, leaving only a number of mottled and illegible handwriting.
Facing the end of life, at this moment, new sorrow and old love suddenly show a little pallor, the desire and lust in the world of mortals are instantly smashed to pieces. For the long years the living of the dead knows nought, Though to my mind not brought, Could the dead be forgot. Thousands of miles of lonely graves, nowhere to say desolate. The two worlds of yin and yang are separated by merciless indifference, ice to the extreme, pain to silence.
If the day is affectionate, the day is old, the sky is ruthless, and is in charge of the universe alone. Turn a hand into a cloud, turn a hand into a rain. All the people in the world are eventually trapped by love, and they can't hide from life and death, joys and sorrows.
The boundary between yin and yang is so clearly discernible that the natural criterion cannot be avoided. The flow of light is gentle, and the years are brushed gently. There are always some people who die inadvertently and quietly. Or die of old age, or die of illness, or die of suicide, or die of war. There are thousands of ways to die, special encounter the same return, from then on Yin and Yang separated, leaving only posterity empty sorrowful. It's just that the meaning of death is very different. Or, heavier than Mount Tai, lighter than a feather, or, famous in history, or notorious.
No choice but to spend, deja vu Yan returned. People will eventually drive cranes to the west. However, some people create an idea, some people uphold a spirit, according to the world, but dare to compete with the sun and the moon, with heaven and earth, immortal.
Sometimes the flowers bloom and the flowers fall out of shape. Although people can not choose their own life, but can choose a different death. Choosing the way of old age is tantamount to choosing a different way of life, and the meaning of life will be given different contents. May be for this, pay hardships, suffer hardships, may be for a certain belief, give up their lives, shed blood. However, if a sentence is worth this life, you can calmly face the consolation of your ancestors before you walk onto the bridge. If you have done something, it will be respected by future generations and worshipped by thousands of people.
The dead are ready to rest in peace. The living will still carry the weight forward, for themselves and for others. Brush off the world of mortals, put aside the flashy illusion, see this complex and colorful world, quietly observe the beauty of the years, and cherish it.
Qingming Festival, how many people can be clear? How many people can understand? Maybe Qingming is in the hearts of the people.
Author: crazy chivalrous
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