Spring breeze rises, cold according to fall, graceful of full garden peach blossom is graceful. The language before the flower, still writing down, affection scatters crisscross footpaths between fields, had gone together. Silent, silent, silent. Lunar crisscross, the room is empty, smoke a knife to cut off the water supply soul of be overwhelmed with sorrow or joy. The heart still is in, say in the dream, oath is strong language, heaven and earth is held in the palm hard. Fall, fall, fall. Author: The red autumnal leaves of sweet hill |
Orignal From: Hairpin head phoenix
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