In the Springtime, Quietly Listening to the Flower Language
Small bridges, flowing water, falling flowers, misty rain. The spring scenery is profound, how much so?
In March, the small town is already filled with flowers blooming and falling. A glance of tobacco smoke drifts and obscures. In the rain, flowers are lonely, and bees and butterflies do not come. Until the rain stops, until the last rain falls, like the last drop of tears.
One fragrant cluster of fallen flowers adorns my clothes. The east wind blows the willows green, the clear water reflects the pink peach blossoms, the heart resonates again and again. You appear in my window's form, like a blossoming of longing—do you want me to see your appearance at that moment? The heart's affairs have already filled the branches; those waiting in the spring days have already been subtly tinged with red. In March, grass grows and swallows fly; you have already sown countless seeds of longing, awaiting the spring to send forth several branches. Light mist obscures shyness, but the anticipation is of a flower bud eager to bloom, occasionally revealing a hint of color, already deeply crimson.
Willows shrouded in mist, silken grass like threads. A warm current flows through my heart, like spring wind passing through the heart, the temperature is just right. Gazing, I only see flowers and flowers entwined in affection, clouds and clouds holding hands in lightness, the dreamlike attachment stops time. Imagining a spring blossom walk, imagining the pleasantness of strolling through flowers, imagining the delightful intimacy of the fragrant flower buds touching my skin, I close my eyes, slightly dry from long vigil, and mobilize all my senses to savor you, quietly tilting my ears to listen to you, and stretching out my arms to gently touch you. My hands tremble slightly.
Mist hangs heavy, water is vast and boundless. Standing alongside a cluster of flowers in a Song Dynasty poem, warmly and affectionately. A thousand years of dust gather on a pair of eyelashes. Green screens and flower shadows, morning breeze brushing the moon, a jade flute dispels the Tang style and falls the Song style, a guzheng plays the dust, evokes the sound of the heart, in the entanglement of leaves and flowers, in the resonance of flutes and zithers, sings a song again and again. Reading you, like a flower, gently, gently calling your name, tears fall, like rain. Allow me, in the depths of the world, in a posture as low as dust, to cut my heart into paper, grind tears into ink, and write this chapter, with you like a fleeting encounter!
Distant mountains like dark eyebrows, near water, ripples. As warm breezes caress the riverside willows, the day is setting, but not yet; when flowers whisper softly, the dusk gradually rises. The leaves of countless branches smile, the fragrance of flowers fills the spring. At that moment, your skin emits a faint fragrance, at that moment, all kinds of feelings and sentiments are scattered, the flower buds burst forth, even if countless affections are exhausted, the moment of blooming is fate, and this moment has become an eternal memory.
Rainbow clouds inserted into flowers, longing thoughts woven into a bun. A crescent eyebrow turns in the spring colored clouds; a flowing water sleeve dances in the wind and dust. A lifetime of youthful beauty, blossoms and falls again. Scattered and fragmented affairs of the heart converge into scattered words, fall into the eyes and turn into tears, fall into the dust and turn into flowers. How can I let you know, in the most beautiful encounter in the world, in the time I've been waiting, I just happened to meet you, just the right you? From now on, from this moment on, let me quietly bloom as a silent butterfly, along your path, scatter fragrance along the way. In a trance, I seem to hear someone singing in the depths of spring: The spring in our eyes, has a beauty, a magic… (A heron takes a picture)
