In the script of life, all the past, like the wheel of time, moves slowly and unhappily, and then becomes obscure. Even if the tears of the night still linger, and your face smiles with a low eyebrow, your wishes will be blown to the wilderness without yearning by the breeze of chaos. And the pages that I had written, in the rainy season, with the cold ink, became a secret that no one would ask.|
and smiles gently to the red dust. With an indifferent and elegant feeling, ponder the story in a pot of heart, wander a love song, taste a sad parting mood, and know a picture through the years. And then listen to the heart, the pulse of nature, the whisper of life, in the years that depend on it, turn your story and mine into the most affectionate poetic dream, which is perhaps more unique eternity.
The autumn leaves of the palm are still flying, but the story has already entered the end. One day we will also understand that the so-called fame and wealth and money, like the quicksand can not be grasped, the tighter you pull, the more often the loss. And the love of love. All things do not ask for the next life, but only the present.
Alas, sigh, sigh: when does this half window rain and wind break? How do you cross this leaf?