Thank you for the photo.

If you stand like a lotus in the clouds, spring trees on the water and the world of mortals, I will come to advance and retreat with you in my life. Three points into the mud, seven points out the water, snuggle up to a river storm and watch the clouds roll and relax. Turn the gesture facing the water into pure freehand brushwork and draw a picture of the soul.

The monsoon raises its high collar, walks into thousands of households thinly, and comes out chubby. Tell me, lush green leaves are not far away, there are bright yellow coming out from the branches, and there is also a lonely frost and snow hidden. I should put down the despair of winter and go ahead with a heavy load. Looking at you with an umbrella, the rain in March is not dyed, the chilly wind is not soaked, the silly willow is not around, and the footsteps are in a hurry, crossing the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River and reaching an ink painting picture.

In the vast waters, there is enough sunshine to bring the dead back to life. The shore willow pulls out new green silk to relieve the long desolation. The grass is turning green and the flowers are blooming. You have obviously seen through a ray of spring information. Inspired by a long-planned belief, you pulled out a small green sword, pierced the layers of black prisons, quietly leaned out and conceded three points.

I stood on the shore, afraid to whisper, letting the rain fall on my shoulders and wet my skirt, for fear of disturbing the germination of your youth You are like a Zen flower, sincerely following the will of the Buddha, quietly standing up this blue wave. Know how to live forever. The soft mind has a clear structure, and I can't collect it with a poem. I am ashamed of my youth and shallowness in writing. I can't figure out your idea that you don't complain about spring, worry about Xia Chan, grieve about Qiu Lai and sigh about winter snow. And I, perhaps the world of mortals is too obsessed, and those happy and unhappy things always make me tremble and anxious. It turns out that it is the great realm not to be happy with things, not to be sad for yourself.

We are separated by water, and I am still a layman in the world of mortals, unable to reach your quiet clouds and waters. That spring rain became a curtain, and you are the scenery outside the curtain. A bay of clear water splashed on your new skirt, and you stood quietly, like cicada hair stained with the crystal of dew. I was shy for a while, but I was always within reach. A lonely red dragonfly can't wait, I don't know if it's your lover. At night, a pair of wings bear the weight of a drop of dew and struggle in this smoke. Dancing solo on your green leaves, watching you Leng Xiang all red. I think it's good to be a red dragonfly. It can suck your perfume and make butterflies on the shore envy others.

You missed the spring flowers and the colorful autumn. Your pink, pure white, blue vase, oily green of the lake and smoky color of the river have always decorated my dreams, which is better than the yellow of weeping willows and the lush grass. You only need a pool of still water to breed the elegance of life. I have always missed you, and I am willing to use my life as a clear spring to support your fragrance. I know I want to read you in silence, so I have faded away from fatigue and secular noise. I come from misty rain, from the breeze and bright moon, from dawn and dusk. I walked in a quiet posture in the sound of insects and frogs, looking at you and saying nothing to each other.

The red dragonfly wet the first kiss of the lotus and turned over a summer page. The lotus leaves all over the lake are dense and colorful. Looking at the lake, the green leaves greet smallpox Anh Hong Day, and the branches are full of flowers, either shy or half-open, or quietly blooming. The lake is full of flowing rhythms. Its head stands upright, its face is smiling, and it stands alone, hiding in the Liu Yin or exposed to the blue waves. White is fresh and refined, and pink is beautiful and elegant.

When I walked into the Dutch garden again, I recognized you at a glance, which was very lyrical. The green lotus is covered with water, the fish moves under the lotus, the solitary stem holds up the red fresh, and the wind shakes the purple leaves. Your flower curtain is purple and fragrant, and that flower is bright red. Layers of lotus leaves spread out the dark green stage, and the lake is clear and quiet because of you. I see that love is so flamboyant and profound, one petal at a time, hiding your powder, tender white and a bunch of incense outside the poem, handing over the cicada language in summer, mixed with the breath of sunshine. The water is full of your soft shadow, rippling with beautiful fragrance.

You are in the middle of the water and I am on the other side. This can't be my vision. You hold up the red umbrella in the south of the Yangtze River and show me a secluded path, waiting for me to sleep with you.

That night, the moonlight was like water, and your smile was like moonlight. I can't give birth to wings, like a butterfly, like a dragonfly, spread my wings, like a passing bird's shadow, ride this cold wave and put my wings on your stem. I will pick up a pen to make a boat, and I will read the words through the cracks in the night, open the river in June and reach your pink smile. You are beautiful and moist as jade. I want to fill a flute with dense words, drag a breeze, pull a running water, cut a willow shadow on the shore, and spell out a lotus pond moonlight. Find the agility of ink with smooth and graceful rhyme, and I will talk with you, touch the water, take the moonlight as the yarn, invite the breeze to play music and dance on a pool of cold waves. Hold you as pure as snow, without any blasphemy.