It’s a flat hill

2022-05-05 0 By

The slope holds the clouds, the water circles the mountain, and the first bird wakes up in the morning.The white feathers reflected the light of the sky.The dark brown earth looked up at the pale green dew on the leaves and began to breathe wet.The early morning of the hillside may be primitive, different shades of color in the morning light soft overlap, or stagnation or floating, forming a most clean love.The small hillside hung in the light of the evening, with a reddish background, green grass, and a few purple clouds on the horizon far away.The wind came, strange and loud, over the slope of grass and stone, filling the transparent evening with ambiguity.Though the hillside was bare, the dark light hid all the flowers.I looked back at the hill, the hill hung with dusk.A small village was thrown tens of meters up the hillside, neither high nor low.The ancestors of the villagers had lived there, and the pond proved it, as did the smoke.The breeze wafted across the hillside, bringing the history of the village before my eyes.Wet and fresh in the past, always with a stubborn, with a sincere.As I drank wine with the villagers, I could see the humble old plum tree under the eaves.A group of people standing by the water to see the distant mountain flow xia, the mountain is green, the xia is red.The red glow trickled down slowly, reflecting on the green hillside, red no longer red, green no longer green, wonderful mix of colors began to spread in the clear air.People watched and sighed.I did not know the meaning of sighs, but only a few sad looks passed through their eyes.The sky was blue, the swallows were black, and a strip of bright color glided easily.The wings of desire spread wide, not content with low eaves, treetops and streams, but fond of chasing the shadows of mountain clouds.Moonlight soaked in the grass, swallow flew over my chest, carrying away my rich thoughts, to the distance, to the future.Stars fall on the side of the hillside, swallows fly on the side of the hillside, I see the whole hillside slowly tilt in time.On that day, we faced the hillside, the river, the vastness that could be seen here.Cattle on the slope, fish in the river, you in front of the flower, I under the moon.Cooking smoke and clouds mix together, look up you and bow my gaze together.We are close to nature, and to poetry, in dreams, as we would like to be close in fireworks.Evening pavilion, western clouds, orange me.Time gives the vague sky, the stream gives the glittering ripples.The eyes in the pavilion are waiting in search, waiting in hope, waiting for a cool, waiting for a lover.The first and countless eyes, the first and countless: my eyes flow softly over the ruffled hillsides, over the naked trees, trying to revive the dreams that were once linked, and you that were once in each other’s arms.A very dark road, a very long road.There is a cat on the road, lying quietly, quietly watching.I walked through the woods, the hills, where the moon didn’t shine.Now, the black is coming from all sides, you are coming from all sides, I will not surrender to the black, BUT I will surrender to you.In the shadows behind me I found passion, light, and thoughts of the dawn.There’s no hurry. Why don’t we go together?Go to the plum blossom forest, go to the crane pavilion, to smell the smell of a small plum, to see the appearance of a small crane.We are willing to stop for some stars in the sky, but also willing to linger for some fish in the river.The night was almost over, and we climbed the hill and leaned against each other, waiting for the bright red sun to come out and meet each other