To youth｜The "youth" copywriting that amazed the students

｜To Youth｜

The "youth" copywriting that amazed students

The sycamore trees in midsummer are always lush, the scorching sun above our heads is always warm, and the reading on campus is The voice is always clear, I mean, we are always young.

The tree is a sycamore tree, the city is Guang'an City; the red bird is the riverside bird, you are my sweetheart. Miao was a young girl, dreaming in the forest at night; in the end, it is the riverside, the birds are out of reach, and the sweetheart is out of reach.

At the end of the story, the No. 3 Road was still endlessly long, with luxuriant sycamore branches and lush leaves. The sun was shining brightly in the world, and we were still young at that time.

The cicadas chirped on the leafy sycamore trees that summer, calling for midsummer. The evening breeze outside the window brushed my cheeks. The end of my boyhood in late June. We met in summer, and summer never comes. The end...

The strong wind blew down the sycamore tree, and no one cared about the fallen leaves. The wind is the wind, the tree is the tree, you are you, I am me!

The vines go deep into the clouds along the red wall, and the haze is everywhere under the sycamore tree. He stands under the clouds and looks at the fog. All around.

Youth is like the phoenix tree outside, the scorching sun, and full of hope.

The strong wind blows through the sycamore trees, and others will comment on it, so you say what you want, and I will live my life well.

I lay on the table, listening to boring mathematics, and was in a daze from time to time. It was autumn in a hurry, and the leaves of the sycamore trees outside the window gradually fell. The math problems without answers last summer were buried in the unknown. Under the dead branches and leaves.

The four seasons have long been reincarnated, and the fallen leaves of the sycamore tree have gone with the wind. You are no longer the person in my memory, and I will never see you again.

Miss Meiling likes plane trees, so I planted them all over Nanjing.

The tree is the sycamore tree, the city is the city of Nanjing, and the city of Nanjing is filled with beautiful sycamore trees.

"The Wind Rises" is not about love or friendship. It sings about our youth when we were sitting in the classroom, with the sound of cicadas chirping outside the window and the green vines climbing over the sycamore trees.

In the midsummer of that year, the cicadas were chirping noisily, and the young man under the sycamore tree was like the scorching sun and shining stars.

The withered yellow sycamore leaves carry the unfinished heartbeat of boyhood, and the autumn wind blows through it with a sour and short-lived secret love.