Ball aesthetic prose. Don t be decadent about love.

Winter reverie. The hands are on the compass, tirelessly turning, bathed in the warm winter sun, I lazily snuggled in front of the window, turned the calendar in my hand, those title pages full of symbols, left the years of grinding, the heart silently counted the time, so fast, in a few days, the new year is coming, recalling the experience of the year, I can't help but sigh: when has the dull become a luxury yearning, crying and laughing, have been forgotten by time.

In the deep winter of the afternoon, you can't see the expression of the outside world, and everything along the way can only be forgotten while walking. The Buddha said: The thousands of times in the past life have been exchanged for the passing of this life, but at this moment it has been sealed in the depths, waiting for time to lift the ban; Dusting off the wind and dust, the heart lake is vague, although it has been polished by the years and has long lost its old luster and clarity, but it looks quiet and still.

As I get older, my mind becomes more rational. True love once, has been deeply favored by God, why bother to ask for the situation after many years, whether it is glory or sinking, I silently pray for you.

After a few years, we are no longer young, we are about to be separated from the red dust, and when we look back, I hope that I can still remember those who once moved me.

Spring nostalgia, Taiwan, Zhang Xiaofeng).

Spring must have been like this: from the green and restrained hills, a handful of snow can no longer hold on, a poof, the cold face will be laughed into a flower face, a song will be sung from the clouds to the foothills, from the foothills to the low deserted villages, sung into the hedgerow, sung into the yellow webs of a duckling, sung into the soft dissolved spring mud - soft as a bed of freshly turned quilt spring mud.

So delicate, so sensitive, yet so chaotic. A thunder can provoke the clouds that cry all over the sky for no reason, a burst of cuckoo crying, can fight a city of azaleas, a gust of wind rises, and every willow will chant a white and vast, virtual fluttering and inaudible flying flocculent, every trace of flying flocculent is a semicolon of a willow. Anyway, spring is so unreasonable and illogical, and it can still be too good to be peaceful.

Spring will inevitably be like this: the dry stems full of dark leaves and flowers are holding a piece of old roots, and the beams of thousands of houses in the north are disturbed by the wind and snow, and they are gently holding a small empty bird's nest. Then, suddenly, one day, Peach Blossom conquered all the mountain villages.

The willow tree controls the royal ditch of the royal family and the river head of the people, and the spring is like a king with a clear banner, and it is beautiful because of the long-term pious hope and prayer.

And about the name of spring, there must have been such a story: before the "Book of Songs", before the "Book of Songs", before the Cangjie characters, a lamb suddenly felt juicy when eating grass, a child suddenly felt the soaring when flying a kite, a pair of legs suffering from wind pain suddenly felt comfortable, and thousands of pairs of plain hands suddenly felt the blood and blood ...... of the water when they were weaving yarn on the riversideAs they ran to each other in amazement, they decided to pout their mouths in the shape of a whistle and name the season "Spring" in a pleasant whispering voice.

Birds can start measuring the sky again. Some are responsible for measuring the blueness of the sky, some are responsible for measuring the transparency of the sky, and some are responsible for measuring the height and depth of the sky with those wings. And all the birds are not good mathematicians, they squeak and calculate, and nucleus, and finally do not dare to announce the statistics.

As for all the flowers, they have been given to the butterflies to count. Give all the stamen to the bees to compile. All the trees, leave it to the wind to pamper. And the wind, hand over to the old wind chimes in front of the eaves to remember and inquire one by one.

Spring must have been like this, or, somewhere, it still is, right? Walking through the chimneys and chimneys of the Black Forest, I wanted to visit the spring that lingered in the middle of the distant age.

Every green leaf tells the story of spring. There are as many green leaves as there are spring stories. In the pen of writer Zhang Xiaofeng, spring is rendered as spiritual, poetic, and individual, brewing its own story and planning its own beauty according to its unique way of existence.

I have two classic American texts mook's should be about the same I just don't bother to play = =

You can check it out online.

Jian Zhen's prose is good, and Zhang Ailing's is also very good.

On the other side of the year, the years are like frost.

The years are passing by at your fingertips, looking back at the past, chasing the footsteps of the years, gently leaning on your window, like illusion and reality, like a shadow; Lying in front of the desk, the tip of the pen reminisces, dripping with the fragrance of ink, disillusioned life. Like a blank piece of paper, gently lift the pen, use the most delicate words, depict your tired face, only write you into my life, what I can't write is a piece of love, but what I write is the prosperity of the world.

Before I fell into the UK, under the bright moon, I held the flowers, and on the way back, the ground was full of frost; Looking at you quietly, through the branches and leaves, tossing and turning on the other side of the passing years, swaying my wishful thinking, in the cold autumn, counting the past pictures over and over again, indifferently, the tears have been split into two lines, the eyes are full of sadness, no matter how hard to forget, the superfluous is just helpless.

And leave a song of acacia, the autumn moon dances, drinking autumn frost alone, the fallen leaves are always accustomed to interpreting the dreams of other times, in the twilight of autumn, under the ancient trees, look up, full of gloom; Between the eyes, the clouds drift thousands of miles away, the moonlight is like frost, the return geese are silent, and only people are on the way home.

The passing years are like a dream, prosperous as white plain, leaning on the building alone, looking at the vast sea of people, the moon shadow is in a hurry, the pedestrians are gradually exhausted, in the hundreds of turns and thousands of times, instantly condensed.

Staying at the end of the years, looking at the hurried figures of the past, how have they ever appeared; The flowers are blooming, but you are not there; The flowers are gone, you still miss it, after several spring and autumn, scattered into mud, leaving the fragrance of this season, a wisp of love; That waiting is like a seed buried in the depths of a thousand years.

The catkins are like frost, lonely and self-appreciative, nostalgic for the colorful spring, accompanied by only shadows, alone in the cold winter night; Waiting far away, it will not be as scheduled, but the affection is still there, and in the deepest part, it is the melting of ice and snow; I'd rather be like this, go through my life, and I'd rather just be a withered leaf that once inadvertently fell in front of your eyes, and you just smiled slightly, let the wind carry it away, and forget it on the other side of memory, where it had the most beautiful encounter in its life.

I once watched quietly on the castle tower, raised my sleeves and left, my thoughts drifted in the wind, and under the twilight, the memories were always so euphemistic; Only in such a kind of waiting and watching, can we arouse the long-calm thoughts in our hearts, and for a lifetime, in dreams and watches, quietly wither.

Whistle along the pigeons.

I'm looking for you.

The high forest blocked the sky.

A lost dandelion on the path.

Lead me to the blue-gray lake of pearl.

In a slightly shaky reflection.

I found you.

The unfathomable eye.

- Lost) The sky is gray.

The road is gray.

The building is gray.

The rain is gray.

In the midst of dead ashes.

Walked past two children.

A bright red. A pale green.

- It feels like the sun is shining in the sky, and it is buried by dark clouds.

The rain washed away, the negative of my soul.

- photo) collided at an incredible speed.

Dazzling destruction looms.

But it never happened.

A door opened and closed again.

So much for. Is that all?

Your late return wheels.

On my dreams that have been barren for many years, stay.

Many Ways. Wake up and soothe them one by one.

- Derailed) Sorry, it's poetry.

Kangqiao's essay "On the Yangtze River, Our Mother River".