To Youth

Stunning the "youth" copywriting in the student days.

The sycamore trees in midsummer are always flourishing, the sun overhead is always warm, and the sound of reading on campus is always clear. I mean, we are always young.

The tree is buttonwood, and the city is Guang 'an. Red is a bird by the river, you are a sweetheart, dreaming of the sunset in the forest; It is always out of the reach of birds by the river.

At the end of the story, the third road still has no end. Buttonwood trees are flourishing, and the sunshine is just in the world. At that time, we were young

That summer, cicadas sang on the sycamore tree of Ye Mao in midsummer, and the evening breeze outside the window brushed my cheek. At the end of June, when my youth ended, we met in summer, and summer never ended. ......

The wind blew down the buttonwood tree, and no one asked if it had fallen. Wind is wind, tree is tree, you are you, I am me!

The vine goes deep into the clouds along the red wall, and there is fog everywhere under the buttonwood tree. He stood under the fog and looked at the fog everywhere.

Youth is a phoenix tree, a scorching sun and full of hope.

The wind blows through the buttonwood, and others have different opinions on its length. So, you can say whatever you want. I live my own life.

I lay on my desk, listening to boring math, and I was in a daze from time to time. In a hurry and autumn, the leaves of plane trees gradually fell out of the window, and the math problem that had no answer last summer was buried under the unknown branches and leaves.

The four seasons have already reincarnated, and the fallen leaves of buttonwood trees have gone with the wind. You are not the person I remember. I'll never see you again.

Miss Meiling likes French phoenix trees, so I planted them all over Nanjing.

The trees are the buttonwood city and the southern capital, and the buttonwood trees are planted all over Nanjing.

The blowing wind has nothing to do with love and friendship. It is about our youth sitting in the classroom, cicadas singing outside the window and green vines climbing over the buttonwood tree.

In the midsummer of that year, cicadas were noisy, and the teenagers under the buttonwood were like the scorching sun and shining stars.

The dead leaves of Indus bear the unfinished heart of childhood, and the autumn wind blows with a sour and short-lived secret love.