Red dust dreams, drunken years

In July, the wind passed over the eyebrows, breaking thousands of thoughts and falling on the promenade of time. This is the yangko that has been revived in the past. It is a gentle and sentimental stalk of the beating of the beaten pen.

In the long years, the life of Bohai has come and gone, penetrating the glitz of this world, leaving the mottled memory everywhere. When the old past is crushed by time, my lonely soul can still stop and stop again.

If you say that gathering is a bitter, the passing is the fault of the year. Then, all the joys and sorrows in the world are also a journey of life that needs to be completed before it can be completed.

The world is still the same, the past is difficult to look back, those memories are like yesterday's dreams, precipitated in the time of the faint sorrow, awakened how many deep sleep. The exiled night, the thoughts wandered in the quiet air, lingering, the endless sentimental, holding the night's charming, together in the deepest part of the soul.

Life depends on the road, when the road is exhausted, when the thousands of sails are exhausted, the years turn the tenderness into tears and drown in the red dust, leaving those who lament, stunned by the lights.

In the quiet night, the moonlight flows like water, condenses in the sorrowful words, and turns into tears, turning into sorrowful mourning, and cherishing the dream of red dust. In the middle of the night, the heart was empty, and the toast was light to the moon. When I looked back, the time was broken into blushing, drunk but countless memories. So, my story, the smoke of the years, the beauty is not true.

The red dust dreams, the drunkenness of the millennium, when all the prosperity is exhausted, life returns to the original indifferent, will you still remember, those who have accompanied you through the process of a journey.

I scorned the time and watched the passing of the years. The memory of sedimentation, floating in the heart of concern, can not erase the faint beauty of yesterday, can only be sent to the text, silently dying in the dream of blooming like a flower.

Picking up the look of the future, the road in the distance is still confused, used to walking alone, feeling the beauty brought by this loneliness, it is so gentle. Yesterday, I was only able to wither in tears. The memory of the smoke color, with the age of the old, left a sigh of sighs, a faint sorrow in the bottom of my heart is not willing to disperse.

The deep night, the illusion and the memories are lingering, intertwined on the edge of the dream, weaving into a song of a thousand turns, which is my deep attachment to the past, blooming in this beautiful scenery.

Time flies through the passing of the past, who is connected to the past string, combined into a crystal tear chain. The sorrow in my heart is full of nowhere to be released, happiness and sorrow fill the black and white of time, who is sighing, the dream is still the same, only the road is already at a loss.

All the way, see the world flower blossoms thank you, the moon is missing, the sighs and joys are separated, and there are no traces.

Counting the past, when the old calendar turns to the end, the memory is picked up bit by bit, the thoughts of the broken, can you, remove the sorrowful sorrow, and re-enter, this painting that meets with each other in.

The tearful sky, floating in the world of laughter, I know, those years gone by, how many beautiful past, the beauty of the dreams, who would like to stop and stay, taste the true feelings between the lines.

Beat your fingertips! Why are you always hurt like this, who are you singing for, who is dancing for you, can you know if the text is a paradise for dreams?

The wandering mind is still the same, and the pace of walking is in a hurry. When those beautiful dreams have gradually become a moving ending, my lonely romance, like a flower, blooms in the deepest part of the red dust.

It seems like the water is flowing, can't wave, the dream of Fanghua. Once in the Bohai Sea, I couldn’t solve it. Sighing the years like a song, a few times is a meeting.

Tonight, I once again slipped past the eyebrows of the years. As usual, I knocked the story into words, and it was a beautiful chapter in the time of the song.

The dream of red dust falls, the bustling, the dream falls, the drunken world.

First day: decaying oath