wang shi ru yan-Nightingales whisper

散文

It seemed like the bright fireworks, and the resplendence that went out in a flash. I looked at the night sky, which was decorated with enchanting place just now. At this moment, it is such silence. At night, hiding behind heavy curtains, thinking that I was also in such a quiet night, thinking that we were thinking about the white snowflakes together, quietly drifting across the wilderness and the village, drifting into the human heart, the context is clearly printed on the window of the soul, so the memory becomes vivid and vivid. The songs of childhood were fragmented with the bitter north wind. It looks like the old gramophone, the yellow record, the intermittent and harsh squeak. Lying on the window, with eyes wide open, looking for the snowflake floating in front of me last year among the snowflakes flying all over the sky. It used to be so light, so delicate, like a carefully hollowed-out pattern, melting in my heart, so I always remember its appearance. Besides, it slowly disappears in my palm. At that time, I had an expectation and started the season of Snow dancing in spring. If there is one thing that can touch your heart, even if it is as tiny as snow, it will stay in your memory for a long time. The maple leaves all over the mountain are green and red, red and falling, leaving bare branches, recalling the splendor of the past and recalling the past prosperity. The wind blew, and the branches sighed each other, expressing their hearts. The surging waves hit the reef violently, and the splashing droplets, together with all the happiness in the sun, dispersed together. Year after year, day after day. In the picture of hundreds of GE competing with the stream, the fishing fire next time lit by the river is smashed in the fine reflection. White Canvas dots walk into the scroll of history and the deep blue of the sea. Standing on the top of the years, overlooking the waves of the river, along the winding river, rolling away how many sorrows, turned into clouds and smoke, Fu Na Willow waist, rising from the green mountains and green water mountain streams, the icicles which were too late to flow down, solidified into scenes of scenery, kept trying, but could not move forward even one centimeter. Winter is coming, can it still hear grass whispering under the ground? Can you still feel the root of the plant open its mouth and suck it desperately? The night began to come quietly. Birds are in the bushes, in the grass, in the nest, rest. The night in the mountain area was shrouded in a vast expanse of white chill. The night of the city was looming in the colorful neon halo, like the charming illusion in the eyes of drunk people. Or quiet, or noisy, scenes of sorrow of departure, joys and sorrows again and again, songs of joy and whining gently, read! When the weather gets cold, Wild Goose keeps flying to the south. Flying over the mountains in groups, towards the heaven in my heart, flying to flapping wings, I often feel tired; When I am injured, I only feel the depth of pain; Hoarse whine, sometimes only you can hear it; When you are lost, you often feel lonely. Time and time again, I want to rest halfway, time and time again, I want to give up the dream of chasing, time and time again, flapping wings, soaring in the blue sky, experiencing wind and rain, experiencing snow and frost, experiencing lightning strike, experience the hardships experienced by generations. The distant and long road of migration! Gently with saxophone, gentle melody, stirring. Sometimes, what understands you most is not yourself or friends, but the musical instrument in your hands and the music in your heart. The light lengthens the silhouette. The white wall and the black silhouette seem a little abrupt and harmonious. On the tea table, the boiled water was still steaming, and I read half of the books, half opened and half closed. The fresh lily in the transparent vase, the white leaves begin to curl, yellow, and the fragrance of flowers is not as strong as that when I just bought it. The East begins to turn white slowly. The Sky is almost bright, isn’t it?

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