the world is floating around. How much love is there? How many red men and green girls are the strangers in the world? How many days old vows, all in the wind. The dusty men and women, the end of the bodhi tree. Drink Zen tea, read chapter scriptures, see Bodhi flowers fall, and flowers. On the back of the Zen bag, walking through the dust, Castle Peak curtain, water for Taiwan. To ferry the red dust, the water is the road, the lotus for the boat.
Who has the gift of true feelings, who has buried it with a flower hoe and tears? Mottled years, records of the fleeting time, those horses and the time spent in the que que words from the deep shallow. Moonlight is like water, cold, cold, clear, away from the past, the memory of the pearl chain fell to pieces like a dream of love. Perhaps, this life, you and I are doomed to travel in this troubled world, a journey of dreams, without flowers or fruits, without beginning or end.
The night is exile in the spirit of the music, slowly flowing, the time flow, the flourishing season, the chord, the quiet heart, like this music, a little bit of once memory, different tones of different stories, and a thousand kinds of sentiments in the night of water, in the music to whirl a person. Life.
Who was in tears in the past? The plot of yin and Yang has been staged for thousands of years and is still being repeated. Who made a bitter dream with beautiful lies? And who locks the tender feelings of the world with deep eyes?
What musical instrument should be used to compose this silent love song, the vicissitudes of this world? Your casual, I write with my life, your eyes, I sigh with the world. How do you edit this section?
A chance encounter is destined to be the vicissitudes of your life. In August, the sweet scented osmanthus, you laugh, I use my life chasing, and I, but I have accomplished your hands can not clear picture, from the crazy posture, splash ink, but hand in the pen, lightning fluttered and go, left a remnants of no one can understand, only a hundred years later, with the broad body copy, square can reproduce. The original pen, now the wreckage, is so plain. |
