The breeze is silent, and the dust color is so silent.

Editor's recommendation: In the midst of clouds and clouds, watch the river come back again, watch the flowers bloom outside the clouds, watch the fate of dust rise and fall in waves, watch the sun and the moon alternate, and wait for eternity.

Memories are too deep to grasp the fleeting time of snow and rain, the world of mortals can be drunk, and people can't afford to pick up the dust that has fallen in the spring sun. The plain skirt is elegant, and it's time to meet again. How to say goodbye, how to wait for a reincarnation, and look back at this life and the afterlife. The wind and flowers have run out, and whoever hides the world of mortals and stays empty, the fate of this world is endless, time is like a bird, and what is to be written in the wilderness is only a dream of rivers and lakes. —— Inscription

Fold the warmth and coolness of a rain sound to close the reminder of the fine wind. Silence is like a dim light, and my loneliness is a dusty river built by drizzle, and the tide of the past stays. After all, I only meet fireflies falling in smoke. Memory is like a heavy snow, crossing the boundary between heaven and earth, looking forward to an eternal fantasy, which was once my yearning for beauty.

When the rain falls, the stretched thoughts overflow with tiny ripples. When the pen is sad and wandering, it is banished to the fleeting time in the words, and in the footsteps of time, only the thoughts are thrown into the flustered indifference. Through the long and narrow darkness of memories, deep in the echo of blood, it is a drop of clear tears to wash away the dust, and the sorrow of cooking in those fleeting years, such as the rain flowing through your fingers, slowly caressed ....................................................................................................................

The sky is so blue, and the obscure heart has been indulging for too long. Waiting for a flower, smiling, falling into your eyes, sleeping in the starlight of the day, like a bird flying through the night, without a scene of blue lake, waiting for a rain, moistening the wasteland at heart, the invitation of sunshine and wind, there is always a poetic lush, reborn and broken cocoon from silence. The flowers have not blossomed, and the peach blossoms are half-stained. The wind's skirt has not yet lightly leaned on Xia Meng, and the butterfly dress that falls on the shadow hedge is still bright and beautiful with peach blossoms, and the wind slowly raises its hoofs, and a page of poetry that sings in the spring waves is already a dream of clearing the dust and warming the heart. The purple glass falls, the smoke falls, the years flowing in the dust, the warm Okanagan valley, illuminate all the joy that flows, the wind blows over the coolness of early spring, a slight twist of Julia mark, and in the footsteps of rain, there is also the agility of water.

Dusk passes through the water, and the dusty mountains cut off the way when you come. When the wind blows, my waiting is so quiet, and endless loneliness rushes in, sketching the shadow of the night. It is as empty as the sky where birds fly, collecting the time of the old year, and has never migrated. Memories have been broken for a long time, like returning tears, quietly passing through every painful gap in the soul. After all, the protection of fate is not pious enough. As soon as the prosperity collapsed in the play, the scarlet on the lintel had faded.

Spring has been swaying, I still bury my heart in the snow, and my feelings have already lost their fate. A second of sweet melancholy examines the rewards in love. When tears filter out those regrets and nostalgia, the pain that hits my heart seems to be built in the cold of winter, and I walk through the spring of my life step by step. Who will go astray with me before the night? I still don't know what I miss when I put pen to paper. The night that dominates the dark field has boiled out. Listening to the throbbing of the pulse, I catch the secret uneasiness, the stagnant footsteps of my heart, nourish the unwarranted suspicion, the temperature that I can't hold back, and it's too hot. When everything can't turn back, it's just the time that whizzes by.

A flower falls, and the sleeves are green and deep in ink. Love is nothing but a bustling scene, and the scattered streamers and feathers are beautiful enough to become a firecracker. A heart is silent and the lights are still on. Who is still awake in the memory? In those days, China was as silent as a flower mark, and the month of that day flowed from the bottom of my heart. In that old story, there was no beginning and no ending. If all the waiting is only sweet words and budding thoughts, it is difficult to predict the love that has been brewed in the past. The faded memory of ink and wash, like the flowers in a cold winter, and the whispers buried in the dust, have all been Qian Shan.

love grows and breaks ground in the bottom of my heart, and where does the wind-like memory blow? Melancholy is silted sediment. How inadvertently, it is stained with the raindrops in the morning and the desire for nowhere to live. Just like the flying bird wings, they pass between the night fog and the autumn wind. Through the silent deep eyes of the years, it is my longing to walk away from the wilderness. You are a passer-by in the last days, you are a flower sorrow of the old year, and you pass by my heart and are buried in the clear dust of the snow.

When the dark river of fate divides life and death, the tears that burst its banks at will can't warm up an emotional beginning and end, but the hidden pain in the darkness of bone erosion is greedy. When I miss the rolling blood and cross the cold wasteland of life, the sadness that has nowhere to be placed has already turned into a river. The pain that has been peeled off layer by layer will always go through the past life of the eternal changes. The fetters that are destined in the soul dream seem to be destined to be far away. It's the sorrow and joy of drinking at night. If only the colorful flowers on the brocade were once so abundant and unbeaten ................................................................................................................................................... Thoughts that can't be released through the cycle of light and shade, like the tide going back and forth day by day, the noisy undercurrent, can't stand the scorching of time, and will eventually be plundered by despair.

With your quietness, the long-distance travel of stranded wind, and the ever-rising longing, it is such a delicate echo that it passes through the surging crowd, and it belongs to your own loneliness, such as the raindrops falling lightly on the moss, the footsteps encroaching on it, and it is only the yearning for overlooking at a glance. Sadness is never a paranoid scene. Those vicissitudes of life promises, from flowers and mountains to snowy days, to resist the fragile astray, have finally come to a mutual loss, and let sorrow and joy evolve their own lives, only waiting for time to repay the cause of compassion.

Life is like a winding river. The restless and noisy sound is far away, and the quiet loneliness of the mountain wind has once made everything humble in the desert of time. The condensed dew rushes to the day, and when the light and shadow pass through the broken branches and leaves, they will still reflect the sky you are watching alone. Birds fly over the river again, the sky is lower than the peaks, and I think of your smiling face, like Zhan Ran reborn in the clouds, which once lit up the night that a person stared at.

If you look at the desolate day, you will all die, and the same moonlight will return in a canoe. The thread of memory will be entangled in the palm of your hand again, and the chasing light and shadow have long been stained with the fleeting time. If you miss the title page only a little, can the tears on the ink be released from the endless fetters?

Silence is the ice accumulated on the base. Miss still flows through the blood. When the years pass through the snow and the past in early spring, how will the missing ending change? The memories of love also hope to let the emotional ending return to the calm waters. Where am I when the pieces of soul converge and interweave in the darkness of the river? And where are you? The time of death has been fragmented, and your deep eyes are drunk in the spring and autumn. You are too far away from me, like a wandering wind, I love you after all, and I can hear your breath in the silence soaked in tears. The memory goes back to the original point, and the heart that is no longer brave has been deeply trapped. Have you seen and exhausted the courage, and there is our naive appearance. Under the silence, there are also layers of glaciers between tears.

The south snow is crowded in the north wind, waiting for it to be pulled away into the white hair of acacia. I still stretch out my hand and cry at the top of my lungs. I still let my memory break and fall like debris. All the darkness and noise have not returned, swallowed up, and I am still unprepared. A teardrop that is approaching is suffocating in triviality. In that lost eye, I can't see the way you love me, and my promise has never been left behind. The blood stains that are entrenched in the heart are silent, and whether the tears in the bottom of my heart are also deeply covered.

Tears flow through the eyes, and the heart is dry land. Look at the flowers falling in this world, the tears pouring down, and the memories crushed by years are all in a hurry. Those cold and warm days in the past will be harvested by time. If you can stay together in this life, if you can meet again in the next life, who will ask, is this journey of mountains and rivers no longer tied? The worries hidden among the dense leaves, silent and warm dreams, are flying over the wet soil in the morning, drawing a rustling willow, waiting for the story of spring to be repainted with the most colorful paragraphs, and the faded scenery to gradually focus on the lens of April, while I only lean back on the corner of time, watching the river come back again, watching the flowers bloom outside the clouds, and watching the dust edge disappear if water. (Editor in Charge: Deputy Editor-in-Chief)