[Aesthetic appreciation] If there is an afterlife, I am willing to be a gentleman, waiting for the spring blossoms
From the origin, you are a green shirt with a smoky, rainy road junction.
Just a piece of paper, the Old Testament,
Passing through the reincarnation of five hundred years of wind smoke.
Come, I have already sat at the front of the Buddha.
The piety of the world,
Just be able to miss it in the most beautiful years.
The night rain in Jiangnan, who is the lotus heart?
Who is waiting for the end of the world?
It is not the rain of the Qinhuai millennium;
The ink marks fall, and the fall of love is not a wine.
Those tiny shackles that blow up the sand of memory,
The flat turn is still your gentle dawn.
It’s cold and warm, warm and read.
If the past life is back,
It’s my depth, the fascinating rain lane,
Do you still have your expectations?
The story of the most windy moon, we can't walk out.
Whose shirt is falling,
Who is singing in a dream,
Who is sorrowful at the fingertips?
The encounter is a blasphemy without regrets or complaints.
When the river of forgetting Sichuan is as quiet as snow,
Turning around, I can still see the thoughts of the old light years.
Glowing into the glory of the full moon.
in this way,
Even if the flowers fall into the mud, it will still be as good as it is.
We are just the tears in the moonlight,
From loneliness, you will return to loneliness.
Those long songs
But it’s a happy ink,
Hidden behind the loneliness.
The past is long,
Only the bones of the skeleton refused to enter
This is a vulgar thing.
I don't speak, just touch silence with silence.
Five hundred years of reincarnation,
We are all missing, unable to solve the knot,
When the call of Medo came from afar,
The breeze that rose,
Still have a bitter bitterness and hope.
Whose exquisite heart, smashed a pool of clear water,
Twirling, gentle and live.
At least, you still live in my memory,
I miss the eternal gaze,
Memory is a flower without roots.
Always in the midst of the thoughts, the mountains and the mountains are open.
Many beautiful things are fragrant leaves,
It’s the moon, it’s soft wind,
It is my clear gaze.
Floating life, holding on,
Suddenly, the sound of the piano is flowing, as if it were white.
I am not a gentle woman.
If you go to the shoulders of the glass, you will be crazy about it.
If there is an afterlife,
I am willing to be a gentleman, waiting for the spring to bloom.