The watch of the soul

All the love in the world is due to the beauty of the first sight. You came in my dream, and I lived in your heart. Even if time changes, the traces like the dark fragrance growing in the depths of the soul will not disappear with the smoke. A kind of acquaintance has long been sealed in my heart, even if the wind and rain strikes, it still will not leave.

The light summer in June with the fragrance of birds and flowers is a joyful season. The wind blows softly in the heart, and the light blue sky gives people an openness. Looking up, the distant mountains are verdant, the flowers and plants are prosperous, and the years are what I like in my heart. appearance. Every beautiful day is today, and every day that makes people look forward to is tomorrow. May you and me in June walk in the sun, remember only warmth, never say vicissitudes, smile in your eyes, bright in your heart, and hope that everything is beautiful as promised And to.

The years are quiet, the fleeting years toss and turn, leaning lightly on the arms of the season, according to the fragrance of the words, swaying the love and thoughts like water into the silent grace of my heart. You are a touch of brilliant on the tip of the pen, and the warmth at the root of the text, a season of romance in the youthful summer, the piano and the chords, the pen is a thought. A song always echoes in the bottom of my heart; a piece of ink fragrance, always in front of the case, has a clever poetry line, swaying a speechless fragrance. Xia Hua, Xia Yu, Xia He Pond, where there are flowers, there is the watch of the soul. Know the flowers, understand the flowers, cherish the flowers…the infinite tenderness is in the heart, the sponge grows; the soft thoughts are dancing and flying; the fragrance of the flowers is lightly drunk, and the fragrance is smelled in the dream.

A tenderness that blends in with poetry, and a blush that blends into love, bit by bit, dripping into the ink. One thought starts, one thought falls, one stroke is long, and one stroke is short, turning poems into dreams, warm paper into paintings, the fragrance of poems is long, and the dreams are drunk for thousands of years.