Youth is like a dream, and I answer it with poetry.

Author: Phantom of the Opera ☆ Phantom of the Opera Release Date: 2012-1-6 22: 02: 42

Strangers' eyes crawl between winding country roads, and lost wild chrysanthemums sprout on barren yellow land.

My persistent faith languishes under a pool of mud, and the palace in my heart collapses in a fake smile.

A crooked waning moon is mixed with endless myths, and a few autumn winds blow the man's blushing cheeks.

The bleak evening drums in the bleak border town are in the hearts of homesick people, and who is waving the thin gauze helplessly in front of the louver window?

Will there be a steed running towards the sunset by the Qingqing River? Is there a small wooden boat under Liuqiao in Jiangnan?

I sing softly only because I still have a little mystery in my heart, but who can make me lament the western Western jackdaw, who is rustling in the branches?

Years have honed the edges and corners of youth, leaving indelible scars, and running water is still writing my bittersweet years.

Winter is cold and spring is warm, but it is just a moment to open your eyes and close your eyes. I only have a pot of colorless overnight tea in my hand.

Between heaven and earth, who passed on eternal calligraphy with mountains and rivers, and between mountains and rivers, who forgot the inscription of life and death.

You have your ink painting, and I have my latest flowers.

Burning with fame and fortune, I just sat waiting for Dong Jun to get married in the spring breeze.

It is said that there is no such thing as eternal life, and the passage of time is just dusk rain and sunrise.

Thunder and lightning can't make a charming sound in your mouth, and vicissitudes of life are colorful silk handkerchief that your fingertips turn.

I laughed that heaven and earth gave birth to a jungle war, and I laughed that the ending wouldn't let me tell the difference between true and false.

The hero was down and out, and the blue hair in the mirror turned into white hair. The distant mountain is just a broken pipa with auditory hallucinations.

The legendary Kuafu can't stand the alternation of winter and summer, and the empty Dojo frequently interprets the bustling downtown.

The string covers a short-lived beauty and abandons infatuation Hu Jia on a cold night.

On the other side of the world where fate stops and goes, I can find a red brick and blue tile paradise to rewrite love and hate.

You can get drunk if you say you are drunk. No matter what star is indifferent, singing and dancing noisily, saying you are afraid of cynicism and intrigue, you can cry.

This season's chaos is a punishment from heaven in reincarnation, and how many pen and ink painters have switched to the West.

I gave up my inner struggle when I believed in Sanskrit and sang Zen. I close my eyes and can only play dumb.

The piano can't stop the ups and downs of rainy days. Do you have my bamboo raft in your hand?

Two lines of tears rolled in the world of mortals, and I couldn't give up that concern. When I was singing a song about wine, I bet that the contract would deliver my fate.

The cold wind is always attached to rags and tea in the corner, and white eyes in the snow can't see through whose world this is.

Farmers cultivate fairy tales when they have food in their bellies. In fairy tales, the copper smell of Zhumen embraces Sang Ma.

A bitter sound is endless. The cold window is full of bamboo and snow, and the beauty when smiling is enough to make the country rich and the people safe.

Dance a song, the powder at the bottom of the sleeve turns into blood cream, and get drunk. Listen to the winter words scattered on the thin shoulder blades.

Come on, come on, come on, I am just a passer-by in the world of mortals, admiring autumn chrysanthemums and sighing spring flowers, but wearing a cold golden armor that has been hurt for many years.

Beautiful clouds that can't be embroidered turned out to be wooden boxes filled with dust, and great mountains and rivers were left for young people to play with.

Look at that crescent moon floating on the water, pretending to change from time to time.

Spring can't be closed. Your home is today and my home is tomorrow. Who can expect to swear that hitting the floor is not artificial?

A reflection of two springs reflecting the moon makes people lonely, and trembling hands can't stop the scattered white hair.

The flowing clouds rattle, the flowing water clinks, and there is a scene of fraud.

The annual rings can't stand countless wrinkles and climb slowly. It is a futile gesture to catch the tail of the sunset.

Day and night, I still feel that the world can't hold a swift horse. Who broke the myth of who is who?

Just wait, the pen is uneven, and it has its own way to the horizon.

The depth of the sea not only nourishes lobsters, so wait.

At the end of the spring breeze, there is still a peach blossom stained with dew, waiting for warmth to break it on the cold branches.

Mute, shut your smart mouth and don't talk, let the wind and rain wake up the wonderful things in your dreams.

The smoldering morning sun, the solitary smoke of a ship in the desert and the galloping steed in the Yuan Ye are all the best answers for you.

Believe in the future author: forefinger

When cobwebs mercilessly sealed my stove.

When the smoke of ashes sighs the sorrow of poverty

I still stubbornly smooth away the ashes of disappointment.

Write with beautiful snowflakes: believe in the future.

When my purple grapes turn into dew in late autumn

When my flowers snuggle up to other people's feelings

I still stubbornly use frosted vines.

Write on the desolate land: believe in the future.

I want to use my fingers to stir the waves that rush to the horizon.

I want to hold the sun in my hand.

The warm and beautiful pen flickers with the dawn.

Write with a child's pen: believe in the future.

I believe in the future.

Yes, I believe that people's eyes in the future

She brushed away the eyelashes of history.

She has a student who can read through the years.

No matter what people think of our rotting bodies.

Those lost blues, the pain of failure.

It was tears of emotion and deep sympathy.

Or give a contemptuous smile and bitter ridicule?

I firmly believe that people are interested in our spine.

Countless explorations, lost ways, failures and successes.

I will definitely give a warm, objective and fair evaluation.

Yes, I am anxiously waiting for their comments.

Friends, believe in the future.

Believe in indomitable efforts

Young people who believe in overcoming death.

Believe in the future and love life.